


Ivy & Twine

by merrills



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Borderline Personality Disorder, Chronic Pain, Cullen gets an actual redemption arch and if it kills me, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Iron Bull's Quest was never done hence he died, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Mutual Pining, Personal Growth, Pining, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Redemption, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, for my Lavellan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 76,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23107438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrills/pseuds/merrills
Summary: Set right after the events of Trespasser.A string of murders lands the Champion of Kirkwall in jail and threatens to topple the reforms that Kirkwall's new Viscount implemented in the city to better the lives of elves.The Inquisition, in the meantime, is coming to an end. While Lavellan wants nothing more but to go back in time, bad habits rear their heads in Commander Cullen, Josephine deals with a heart that keeps on breaking, and Leliana has trouble reaching out.There is no way to go but forward. Or is there?
Relationships: Also Not Endgame!, Anders/Female Hawke, Cole/Maryden Halewell, Dagna/Sera (Dragon Age), Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Inquisitor/Josephine Montilyet, Female Inquisitor/Merrill, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Josephine Montilyet, Female Lavellan/Merrill, Merrill/Female Lavellan, Not Endgame!, Past Sera/Female Lavellan, THIS IS GONNA BE ENDGAME OK OK, Tentative Female Lavellan/Blackwall
Comments: 30
Kudos: 51





	1. Anders I

The day Anders received the news of the Inquisition’s alliance with the mages, he was…sceptical. He had been keeping up with the events in the world once he’d found a place where it was relatively safe to stay for a few weeks. Tevinter wasn’t so bad, aside from the dry air, the dust in his shoes, and the unbearable heat. But it did give him relative liberty to stay in a house, to sleep in a bed. And to receive a bite of news every now and then.

He hadn’t liked the word about this new organisation, that to him had sounded like a crushing arm of a replacement for the splintered Templar order. Aside from the fact that the Divine had never really seemed to have a care for mages, it must’ve been a humiliation and a blow to have so much of her personal guard fall to pieces. Which Anders could not say that he felt sorry for.

Even if the Inquisition wanted to go a different way, keeping itself at distance from the Chantry, it didn’t mean that there would not be a secret net spun around their new allies to keep them in check. To keep open shackles around their wrists. To the mages, it would feel like freedom. But if they overstepped a line, those shackles could snap shut and put them right back into the place they’d rioted against in the first place. 

Time went on; the hole in the sky was closed by a Dalish woman who was known as the Herald of Andraste. In the same letter that told him this, he learned of Haven’s destruction. A handful of merchants had arrived to find nothing but burnt structures, barely covered by snow. That was to be the end of the promising development, of course. For every step that was taken forward for mage liberation, another two simply had to be taken backwards; such was the way of things. And so Anders moved on.

Nearly a year Anders spent travelling about the Free Marches, mostly around Rivain where the Chantry’s grasp was slack. Skin burnt by the Northern sun, hair greying faster and faster, he started looking less and less like the young man who’d shown the world on what a precarious balance it’d been holding.

On the Rivaini coast, truth and falsehoods from across the sea came in daily; it was hard for him to differentiate at times which tales about the Inquisition and its many enemies were right. In Tevinter, the newly formed cult and its supposed darkspawn magister leader had been put off as the same old Southern propaganda against the Imperium. In Rivain, things were a bit more differentiated. Templars tainted by red lyrium. Agents who called themselves Ventatori, serving a dark master. And then, out of his love’s quill: corruption under the Grey Wardens. A plea to stay away, to stay safe, to not listen to the strange dreams that might start plaguing him.

How had she known? He hadn’t written her about the whisperings and hisses he heard at night, the song he’d tried so hard not to hear. _This can’t be it, it’s not my time. I’m not dying, not without Hawke here._

But he trusted Hawke more than anyone, without reservations. Her letter had been nothing more than a quickly smudged note, passed along routes that apparently had been quite wet at times. This bit of information had been all he could decipher. 

More context followed after the fact; and, Maker, if he wasn’t glad to not have known about all this beforehand. 

Hawke, physically inside the Fade, fighting nightmares. Stroud, lost. Grey Wardens corrupted and twisted into accepting demonic possession in a last attempt to fight an oncoming Blight that would not happen. But freed, and conscripted to the Inquisition, to redeem themselves. Just like the mage rebellion.

Perhaps there was hope, after all. A dangerous thing, that. It would have been easier to believe if it’d been Hawke in person delivering the news. Anders would have smoothed his hands over her face, her shoulders, her arms, legs, belly and back. Checked for injuries, asked her if she was alright. Laid her down to get the rest she deserved. It would have felt more real.

She would be going to Weisshaupt, she wrote. To inform the remaining Wardens there about the disastrous events. 

For a long while, he didn’t hear anything. Not from Hawke, not from Varric. Isabela and he met up a few months after his love’s last letter. Strange things were happening, and she wasn’t happy about the threat of mass extinction. But then she downed some absinth and told him that at least the Inquisition seemed to be worth its word, putting things back in order. 

“Why the long face? I figured you’d be happy about this,” she asked.

“What d’you mean?”

Isabela leaned forward, her brown eyes sparkling. “I mean that, finally, everybody’s attention isn’t on finding you anymore. There is a Big Bad who’s a bigger prick than you are.”

“A shame,” Anders replied drily. “I’ve always made a point to be the biggest prick around. I blow up one Chantry building, he goes on and blows up Andraste’s final resting place. How can I compete with that?”

That drew a delighted snicker from his friend, and for the first time in a long time, Anders smiled.

“Don’t you worry, from what Hawke tells me, your prick’s size has never been an issue.”

“And don’t you ever doubt it,” he shot back, grinning. 

Where before Anders had only heard of the Inquisition’s work vaguely and sporadically, by now there was no marketplace or tavern anywhere he went where they were not a topic of conversation. The further the organisation’s reach crawled, the more he heard of its involvement in the lives of international politics and small people both. For months, it seemed, that the Inquisition - and the Inquisitor in particular- were everywhere and nowhere at once. All over Southern Thedas, tracking and trapping Venatori agents and extinguishing so-called Red Templars. Uprooting connections that should be far outside their reach, negotiating relationships with all kinds of people, and all the while supporting locals wherever they went. It was completely improbable. Those people travelled more than he even did, and he was a fugitive apostate who used to be the most wanted man in Thedas. It made him wonder what was hiding underneath the Inquisition’s goody-two-shoe exterior.

Some plot was uncovered at the Orlesian court. Then, almost simultaneously it seemed, Inquisition and Orlesian forces were marching South to an old, elven temple. This was when Anders made a point of moving as far North as he could possibly go. For one to be far away from the mess in the South, but also because that way he would be closer to Hawke. 

There had been no correspondence from her in months, and no news from Weisshaupt, no matter where Anders asked. He looked, wherever he went, for Grey Wardens he could contact. Alas, none were to be found.

Before long, word of a supposed blow against Corypheus made the round. And then of his ultimate defeat. And following that, he was handed a letter by a scrawny man as he was leaving the half-crumbled house in the slums of Antiva City. 

  
  


_ Blondie,  _

_ Long time no word. I’m hoping this one will find you well, but I’m not sure how trustworthy a man named Dusty Dustin would be.  _

_ I trust you’re keeping current with what’s going on, but there’s some things you won’t hear in markets.  _

_ The new Divine has been elected, and it’s none but one of our very own. You remember I told you about the Iron Lady? Nobody can be sure if she hasn't replaced her heart with a bar of steel, but the Inquisitor swears up and down that the Iron Lady is like a candied apple. Crunchy on the outside, but soft on the inside. _

_ You might’ve heard that the Circles are being reinstated. Your head might’ve exploded.  _

_ Riots have broken out in the Orlesian capitol. Not because of the Circles, mind you, but because she is a mage.  _

Two steps forward, one backwards - of course.

_ One she has already successfully quenched. I swear, I don’t know if the mages of the Inquisition wanted her to fall or not. Talk has been of the formation of an independent college for magic. Needless to say, it has been tense in this sweet fortress of ours.  _

_Before you go on a killing rampage, Blondie, there are good news for this damned mess. A year of pouring sugar on the apple seems to be bearing fruit; the Iron Lady has agreed to enter negotiations with the Inquisitor over the mages’s condition. Both in order for them to rejoin the Circles, and once they’re in there. Our dearest leader has been running around all over Skyhold talking to mages to collect what they want. I’ve been given an exclusive preview of what she wants to push through, and between you and I: it might,_ **_might_** _just work. Crazier thing have happened. Here just a few bits:_

_ She wants to persuade the Iron Lady to leave the College of Enchanters be. Free choice for young mages on which place they’d rather go to. _

_ No Harrowing, no Rite of Tranquility. Grand Enchanters found be be corrupting students into blood magic will be tried immediately, as will Templars who abuse their power. No torture, no year-long isolation, no corporal punishments.  _

_ There’s more, but this is already too damned long. The details aren’t all hammered out just yet. Sure is only that with this Divine, Templars won’t be like they were. “A leash can be pulled from both ends, dear,” I’ve heard her say. _

So long as they don’t strangle you with it, thought Anders.

_ I don’t know what you hear in your corner of the world. I thought I’d give you what's happening straight from the halla’s mouth. Hope’s not all lost. The next few weeks will be crucial. No need to blow up any more buildings just yet, Blondie. _

_ I hope you’re doing well, in spite of it all. Have you heard from Hawke? _

_ Varric.  _

  
  


He’d waited enough. Justice disagreed, strongly. But being torn between hope and depression was too much, and so Anders packed the few belongings he had and left for Weisshaupt. The people living in the brown, ugly barracks at the edge of glorious Antiva City would remember the kind healer for a long time after he left, hoping he’d return. He wouldn’t.

  
  
  


*

Anders was carried out of his deep sleep against his will. He realized he was awake when he could feel his body lay heavy on the down mattress, and the blanket press down upon him. He knew he was safe, and he felt safe, but it seemed constricting nonetheless. 

And so he forced himself to might as well do the rest of the work, too, and commit to waking up; he had a feeling there was no soft return to the dream he’d been having anyways.

His long fingers reached for warmth that they did not end up finding. Instead, there was cool parchment in his hand, and a hazy memory of whispered kisses and a gentle goodbye came to him.

That’s right, Hawke’d gone to Kirkwall. Something about the orphanage and school. Anders couldn’t begrudge her needing some alone time to mend the latest wound. He only wished he’d told her that he needed her company to mend his own. Asking his love for things still didn’t come easy, even after seven years.

But, no harm done. There was another carriage packed with ill people on its way down the Wounded Coast to his new clinic right now. Soon enough he would be busy.

Tending to Kirkwall’s sick usually took up a good two days. Even though there was no sweeter thought right now than just to stay in bed, drained as he felt, it was still something to look forward to. If he pushed himself hard enough, he might enter that delicious haze that he both loved and hated. The feeling of elictricity buzzing between the layers of his skin, his mind racing this way and that, being in dozens of places at once with no sense of exhaustion until after it was over. He would hate it afterwards, the way he always did, but in the moment it was grand.

And so Anders sighed deeply and started moving. First turning on his back, then dragging his sore legs over the edge of the bed, and finally sitting up. They’d let the window open last night to smell the heavy, salted air coming from the Coast, and so now Anders shuddered in his shirt and smalls. Before he coud freeze on the spot, Anders grabbed his dark blue silken robe as he got on his feet, and then trodded over to the window to close it. 

The weather was growing colder these days, or at least as cold as it could get in the North. He yet had to see a Ferelden’s idea of cold, but in Tevinter they wrapped themselves in furs as soon as the temperature hit a low that would have counted for the height of summer in the South. 

Near the fireplace, Deliah opened her mouth for a wide, sharp yawn before she placed her giant head back on her crossed paws. The calculating look she gave Anders, however, spoke of anything but leisure, and it was one he knew quite well. Cats and dogs had a similarity after all.

“Silly dog,” Anders murmured, but went on to fulfil his duty. 

As soon as he walked up to the mabari’s plate, the dog lost all of her feigned patience. Just like every other morning, she leaped around him, letting out a short, excited series of barks that accompanied him to the kitchen, where he lifted the door to the cellar. Delia waited at the head of the stairs, impatiently hovering and swinging her broad butt left and right, as though she wanted to sit down, but was simply too damn excited. Here, Anders took a delicious eternity. Leisurely, he conjured fire in his palm and went downstairs to grab the goat leg that Hawke had procured yesterday. For himself he chose pickled fish and vegetables, knowing he still had some dark bread in the kitchen, and two apples. He pressed it all more or less precariously against his chest, bit into one of the apples to have a hand free to light the way.

He didn’t even bother with bringing Deliah’s plate back to her favorite breakfast spot this time - clearly she had been up for longer than she’d let on, starved as she acted. And frankly, Anders doubted he’d be able to carry big slab of meat back the way the mabari was jumping around his legs.

“Here you go, you big brute. Eat up,” he contented not without a note of amused affection, and Deliah didn’t need to be asked twice. 

He hadn’t thought it possible, but the mabari had truly grown on him. Anders would forever and always consider himself a cat person. Deliah was about as far from a cat as a dog could possibly get, but she had a way. Especially in the past year and a half, she had been silly when he needed to laugh, mischievously destructive when he needed to vent, and sweet when he needed comfort. 

He’d known the dog for years and never quite understood Hawke’s relationship with her. But now he did. Deliah was family, it was as simple as that. Not a friend you sometimes loved or sometimes tolerated, not a person to argue with or convince of something. She was just there. Moody, sleepy, funny, lovely Deliah. Sometimes, Anders didn’t even mind when she crept into bed with them. Though she never did it the first night when either one of them had returned from a trip. She knew when her family members needed time to themselves.

Anders chuckled at the nightmarish way the dog went about devouring her breakfast, then started plating his own. After he’d set up his tea and readied his food, he went into the cabin’s living room to sit in his niche, eat, and read a book that one of his patients had brought him as a token of gratitude. It was a worn, much-loved copy about Fereldan folklore. He’d accepted it, reluctantly, but was now glad he had.

Anders never truly thought of himself as Fereldan, since he hadn’t been born there nor lived anywhere there aside from Kinloch Hold. If that could even be called living. Ferelden, as a country, however… it was too much to only be a prison, yet not enough to be called a home. He grew nostalgic, thinking about it sometimes. Talking with Hawke about it. For all she’d accomplished and accumulated in wealth, Anders knew it was a faded dream of hers to go back, acquire a farmstead, live as she had before the Blight. The way her parents had, when her family had been alive and happy. 

Eventually, Deliah trotted back into the main room. One of her favourite things to do after breakfast was to lay on the floor next to Anders and simply nap. It was a sweet gesture of companionship that Anders appreciated, and so he reached down to her to give her a few pets before he continued reading.

The sunlight fractured through the grey clouds that passed over the cabin. Every now and then a particularly bright beam hit Anders’ face, making it hard to read. So eventually, he stopped and simply leaned back on his plush pillow, letting the morning light play on his closed eyelids as it pleased. It was nice.

Disconnected thoughts and pictures passed over the landscape of his mind in a similar manner as the clouds outside. Dark red curtains in the Amell’s estate, Hawke’s blood on his hands after battle, Hawke’s blood on his hand after-

It'd been too small to see it among rejected lining, the heavy flow of blood. In a way that had made it better. Easier to focus on Hawke and her needs, rather than mourn what could have been a child. 

Hawke had been pale as a sheet when she told him that she was overdue. The intent, begging expression in her stark blue eyes had stifled any joy Anders might’ve felt at the news, because his love was so clearly distressed. 

In the end, they agreed that a termination would be best. The decision had been a difficult to make, for a lot of reasons. Anders and Hawke both had always wanted children. Hawke because she knew no other way of life than to have a family, Anders because the choice to have one had been ripped from him again and again. First from the Circle, then from the Grey Wardens. To conceive a child of love with Hawke - the impossibility of it!

It had all gone so fast. Marian revealing the news, the hours of discussion, the decision to be written in stone, then the termination, then Hawke groaning and vomiting from dusk till dawn. All of it in two days. 

“I can’t do it, Anders,” she’d said the day before. “Maker knows I want to, but I can’t. I keep waiting for the world to tear apart again any day now. If we were to have a child now, and then next year another madmen threatens Thedas-“

“Then you don’t have to jump in and save it again! There’s enough heroes out there, Marian.”

She’d pressed her lips together and grabbed her long hair to push it over one shoulder. And there, Anders had seen what it was that truly scared his partner. 

He never had gotten to meet Bethany. She died during the Blight, on the Hawke family’s flight from Ferelden. According to Marian, her little sister had been the kindest soul she knew. A ray of sunshine among the darkest clouds. Reasonable and pragmatic, empathetic and deliberately  _ good _ . 

After losing her brother to the Grey Wardens and her mother to a madman, Hawke stopped cropping her hair. Anders loved the soft waves. Before the two of them had confessed their love for one another, Anders had spent hours looking at the back of Hawke’s head as he was following her through Kirkwall’s streets. Simply watching her hair grow longer and longer, travelling to the nape of her neck and beyond.

“Watch where you walk, Blondie,” he heard Varric say. "I don’t need you tripping over me again like last time just because you can’t keep your eyes off our fearless leader.”

It was only a few years ago that Marian told him why she kept it as it was now, long. 

“One morning after mother died I woke up and I realised that Bethany's face was fading. Father’s, too, but there was nothing I could do about that. But my sister… now, every time I look into the mirror, I see a piece of her. It breaks my heart, but it’d be worse if I forgot about her. About them. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself that.”

She carried the people she hadn’t be able to save on her shoulders, every day. Just like Anders did. And so he stopped arguing when he saw her push her hair to the side the day she told him she was pregnant. 

Marian needed people. She needed family. She needed them to breathe, to function. And it would kill her to lose another member the way she’d lost the others. 

“In two years,” she’d whispered as they’d pressed their foreheads together. “If in the next two years the world doesn’t fall apart again, then I’ll feel safe. Then we can have a child. Is that alright?”

What she needed from Anders right now was safety. For him to be there and show her that she would never again have to worry about him, her family. 

“Better than alright,” Anders had mumbled back, and kissed her like it was the last thing he’d ever get to do. 

  
  



	2. The Return

The return to Skyhold after the events at the winter palace had been… very quiet. 

There had been scarcely any talk aside from the necessary, even among the servants and the honor guard. The founders of the Inquisition and the ambassador were particularly quiet. 

It took days to return home, although a home it wouldn’t be for much longer. For the Inquisition was to be disbanded, and the disbanding to be completed in two months’ time. That was the only thing the Inquisitor had said when leaving Halamshiral behind. Since then, she had been quiet. Turned into herself like a snail. 

Everything that had happened… was too much. For everybody. The shock had shaken loose different reactions in everybody. 

Lady Montilyet and Sister Nightingale’s minds found no rest. Whirring about, they both rested their eyes towards everything that was to be anticipated, and started planning. Josephine on how to smooth the Inquisition’s path into non-existence, Leliana on how to build a network to confront the coming dangers. She needed to start taking her most trusted agents closer under her wing, she decided.

Cassandra Pentaghast was still processing what she’d seen in the Crossroads and beyond the eluvians, but for once she did not feel like fighting. On the second day of their journey to Skyhold, she remembered that she need not be without direction. Rebuilding the seekers had been her heart’s desire, and now free of her commitment to the Inquisition, she may be able to follow it; she glanced on her friend, sitting listlessly on the horse next to hers. 

A pang on sorrow shot through her breast; pity, guilt, and relief. She said a quick prayer to the Maker that He may heal her friend’s wounds, and her heart. Then she touched her left saddlebag, where Varric’s new edition of  _ Swords and Shields _ was tucked away; and the relief grew stronger. Whatever was to come, she had made friends. That counted for something.

Cullen Rutherford was brooding. He was not angry, exactly, not disappointed, exactly, not happy, exactly, and maybe he was nothing at all. He was not content knowing that there was a distinct threat out there, and that the Inquisition was leaving Thedas to it. Of course he knew that Leliana and maybe even the Inquisitor would not let matters rest as they were, but… not having his own troops to support them made him feel uncomfortable. Not to say helpless.

“Cheer up, Commander,” quipped Leliana, once again accurately reading this thoughts. “You will finally be getting that vacation that we have been teasing you to go on.” And then she rode ahead.

He should be happy about being able to retire, he knew. But he could not find the ease in himself to feel it. Not yet, at least. 

Varric, Sera, and Dorian had taken off. 

After exchanging a few encouraging words with the Inquisitor and receiving a hug and whispered thanks, Varric set off back to Kirkwall, where work awaited him. Sera didn’t say much. She assured her friend that she never had trusted Solas to begin with and that the Red Jennies would be there for her should she call on them, and then she and her band of misfits left. Dorian reminded her of the communication crystal and squeezed her arm (the one that was still whole) before leaving to assume his seat in the Magisterium. 

Cole joined the Inquisition party. He stayed a few paces behind everybody, together with Maryden. He felt this was a time when he would be able to help better in Skyhold than anywhere else. And Maryden wanted to document the last days of the Inquisition in song.

Thom Rainier followed as well; though he still had his ultimate mission of redemption in mind. He would not be without direction either. But for now… he stole a few glances at the Inquisitor, still dead-faced as a tranquil on the fifth day of the journey. An old urge to protect her rose in him. She had told him, once, that she despised being alone, couldn’t stand feeling lonely. It was clear as day to him now that in her grief, that was probably what she was feeling. But he did not know how to show support. Maybe this was something she had to go through on her own. 

For a moment he considered coming to her tent at night, when maybe she wouldn’t be as unresponsive as she was now. The entire way, she had barely spoken a word, and looked at nothing and nobody except for her horse’s neck. Climbing onto it had been a challenge, practically one-armed as she now was. And Thom was sure that part of her lethargy was to be attributed to the fact that she would never be able to use a bow again. 

The Iron Bull’s betrayal had cut deep. Deeper than any of them would admit. Nobody talked about it, and that’s how Thom knew it was bad. He had taken no pleasure in having to cut down somebody he had once considered a friend, someone he had held in high esteem. There were moments when he wondered if Bull would have ever come to regret betraying them, had he lived. The only conclusion he ever came to was that he would never know; The Iron Bull was a stranger to them, after all. And still laying, decaying, in Darveraad. Nobody had bothered to retrieve the corpse. The turncloak would rot in in peace.

The road got more insecure, there was more rubble. The hills got steeper. The temperatures dropped. On the afternoon of the sixth day, they arrived in Skyhold. Like always when he returned, Thom’s heart felt like it was ready to burst. 

On his travels he had seen many beautiful things. Quiet meadows that were so pretty they seemed enchanted. Waves on the Stormcoast, majestic and tall as towers. A girl laughing in her mother’s lap in a tavern, both clapping along to a minstrel’s song. And every time, he felt like this. Filled to the rim, as though not one single additional drop of emotions had room inside him, lest he burst. Skyhold had that effect. From the very first time he saw it. Tall and grey, that feeling of serene security. A place where joy could grow uninterrupted. 

On an impulse, Thom turned around to look at his companions. And he saw what he felt mirrored back to him. A bit of sorrow, but also… a wild, sublime love and wonder. His eyes fell on the Inquisitor, and he saw tears. She wiped them away with her sleeve when she saw him look and fixed her gaze back on the horse, but he could tell that it was not the same numbness that kept it there; she was awake. 

*

Cullen shifted a few pages around on his desk. Bent over his desk the way he was, in his heavy armor, his lower back had begun to cramp. His last instructions to the messengers and a few lieutenants had gone over smoothly and quicker than expected, which he considered a blessing. Indeed, there was not much left to do. 

Most of the tasks assigned to his troops nowadays were purely performatory. There was a squabble between a Dalish clan and a minor lord, and the Inquisitor had a sent a unit there along with a negotiator to keep the peace. That was about it. 

Now that the Inquisition was coming to an end, some Inquisition soldiers may think there was little point to continue working. But the commander hoped that they would thank them for having kept them in shape until they found their next employer.

Indeed most of what Cullen was doing these days was signing things. According to the Inquisitor’s request, Lady Josephine had hired a small army of scribes to copy the same document over and over again. 

_ To whom it may concern,  _

_ Hereby the Inquisition gives thanks to the honorable (blank space), who has rendered crucial services in a time where Thedas needed it most. (blank space) has fought valiantly on our side to defeat the Darkspawn Magister Corypheus, who killed Divine Justinia in 9:41 Dragon. _

_ The Inquisition can vouch that (blank space) is a dedicated soldier, a beloved comrade, and a valuable addition to any military establishment. We value (blank space)’s commitment to noble pursuits, strength of character, and willingness to do the right thing.  _

_ Our support of (blank space) extends beyond the end of the Inquisition, and we owe (blank space) eternal thanks. May Thedas never forget the aid of those who gave the most. _

  
  


_Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford_ _Inquisitor Amaryll Lavellan_

  
  


Personally, Cullen thought the letter a bit obnoxious, even worrisome. Especially since it promised support over the extends of the Inquisition. He saw a potential for exploits there, on the cost of the quickly diminishing Inquisition. Especially its coffers.

But he comforted himself with the thought that probably most of his men and women were honorable people, and that the majority also had already been offered positions of varying degrees in both the Ferelden and Orlesian military, some even in Antiva. The rest had decided to go back home to their families and live out a quiet life with the sum they were paid as a compensation. Another thing the Inquisitor had insisted on. 

He couldn’t imagine having to copy this very letter several thousand times, and doing it perfectly. But Cullen contented himself with simply signing where he was supposed to and then moving on to the next one. Having to do it for hours on end was the most boring thing he had to deal with since leaving the chantry for his first templar assignment. He might as well be mindlessly reiterating the Chant of Light before dawn in a clammy, dark cathedral. 

Cullen took a seat when the cramps in his lower back became unbearable and lifted the half-dry quill to sign the next letter, when he halted. For a moment he considered if it truly made all that much sense to continue signing, seeing as he was the only one really making progress on it. 

“Commander, just because the Inquisitor is… indisposed, doesn’t mean  _ we _ ought to be slacking on our duties,” he heard Josephine’s voice, as he had expressed the very same thought to her earlier that day. “There is much to do, and believe me, you will be surprised at how fast two months run by.” She had let out an impatient sigh. A sign of how busy and overworked she was, and that this discussion was over.

Nevertheless he couldn’t bring himself to keep doing this tedious task, at least for right now, and his thoughts ran on.

It was almost a three full days now since they were back, and already he could tell that the Inquisition was slowly dismantling, even without their efforts. First and foremost, there was a significant reduction of staff. In the time that they had been gone, all elves had vanished from Skyhold. Leliana confirmed this. 

“They packed, all of them. Not a single personal possession from our elven people has been left behind. And some noble guests of ours complain of thefts, though that likely is only a cry for attention and scandal. A mere expression of their unfavorable biases,” she had explained at the war table. 

Josephine had been surprised, possibly as the only one in the war council who was.

“I didn’t think Solas would move so fast,” she had said. And then shot a glance around her colleagues, and it stuck just a moment too long on the Inquisitor. 

“I think it’s safe to assume that near every single elf in this castle was his agent,” she’d stated soberly. “And those who weren’t to begin with… well, his agents had three years to bring them over to their side. Or they belonged to the Qunari.”

Cullen had read in Josephine’s expression what she was thinking about. That maybe it had been a mistake to disband the Inquisition. How else were they, was anybody, going to move against an enemy so discreet, skilled and elusive?

“We can’t approach this the same way we did Corypheus, as effective as it was,” Lavellan answered the silent question. “The Wolf has an unknown amount of experience at evading enemies. Hundreds of years, for all we know. And, as Leliana rightfully pointed out, he knows our innermost workings. Us. Going openly against him and his agenda… would risk a mass slaughtering of elves all across Thedas. Even those who may oppose him, innocent ones. Look at the shem nobles already jumping to accuse the vanished elves of crimes that may or may not have happened. They’ll gladly take any excuse to harm us. I’m not going to risk the extinction of elves on behalf of fighting the Wolf. That would just drive the remaining ones surely in his open arms, and those would fight against us harder and sharper than they ordinarily would. It’s too dangerous. We need a different approach.” That had been the most she had talked since her speech at the Winter Palace, and the last time he’d seen her before she had disappeared in her quarters. 

Cullen still didn’t know how to feel about it all. All he knew was that he had been relieved to not have run across any elves in Skyhold. He fought it, but he felt a familiar kind of resentment grow in his belly. A resentment that had hardened when he had heard the Inquisitor refer to humans as  _ shemlen _ , and elves as  _ us _ . It was easy to forget that she was Dalish, sometimes. 

Cullen didn’t have anything against elves, per say. But with the recent events… the attempt at complete and utter destruction of his world, everything he loved, was hard to forgive. A part of him had been disappointed to see all the elves gone from Skyhold.  _ How easily they turned. _ But this spared him the headache of constantly seeing their weak frames and pointy ears, and thinking :“ _ So when are you going to betray us? Are you loyal? Do you hate us? Are you thinking about our annihilation now? _ ” 

It was unworthy of him, he knew. He needed to do better. Yet still, after a series of sweat-soaked nights and terrible pain, one day he was walking across the lower courtyard and an old, ugly part of him thought: what wouldn’t he give for an elf in front of him to properly shake to tears and hold responsible for the fear and impotence he felt. He’d stopped dead in his tracks and said a prayer of forgiveness to the Maker, shocked. He had thought that this kind of hatred laid behind him, all the way back in Kirkwall. That it found him here, where he felt safe, was unsettling. Disappointed in himself, he marched on. 

Even thinking of it now he felt ashamed. He was not going to be that man again. But it was terrifying to think that all that stood between his good resolutions and his monstrous self was poor sleep and a little pain. He would need to do better. And spend more time praying, definitely. 

The mabari on the pelt by his desk stirred, snoring, which drew a slim smile from Cullen. He would need to find a fitting name for the boy as well. He was smart to know when he was being addressed even without it, but giving him a name would formally bind him to his master. 

Cullen dipped the quill into the bottle of ink, reached for a blank piece of vellum, and started scribbling possible names. 

The rest of the letters could wait.


	3. Josephine I

While some people gradually took steps away from their work with the Inquisition, Josephine was busier than she had been in a long time. In fact, she oftentimes, as well as just now, felt the familiar dagger of nostalgia in her chest when she was taking a break from work and realised that another five hours had flown by. 

In truth, Josephine liked having a lot to do, to always be busy. She did not have her father’s patience of sitting around for days on end in front of a canvas. Her time she much rather spent on being engaged in colorful social whirls and dangerous pleasantries. Something hands-on and dynamic where she was in charge. The two years since Corypheus’ defeat had been the epitome of fair-weather - her work at its easiest and most blissful.

Which was not to say that it couldn’t be an immense strain of her - such as the past few weeks. Her entire time with the Inquisition, actually.

Never before did she work for an organization where so much was at stake. When Leliana signed her on, it had seem thrilling, like a challenge. But after Haven she had felt at a loss, like she had gotten much more than she had bargained for. She was proud of the work she had done, and so was her family. Seemingly insurmountable things had been accomplished, and to no small part thanks to Josephine’s dedication, effort, and wit. She had a lot to be proud of.

Yet still, the Exalted Council had been a lot to take. Seeing the organization that she had shed her heart’s blood for put on trial like that had been a difficult thing to deal with, but then to be left alone with the responsibility of it all while the Inquisitor had run off to prevent a Qunari invasion…

Oftentimes in her life had Josephine felt like she was just somebody that people dumped their messes on for her to sort out. As if other people’s recklessness placed the responsibilities they refused to take on her shoulders. It was a gruesome way to feel, so disheartening. Over the years, she had learned to cope with it. It had made her imaginative and resourceful, patient and silver-tongued. Not that it had been without cost. 

More often than she could count, Josephine had to retreat to her quarters to cry tears that stemmed invariably from her frustration with other people. It didn’t happen as often anymore, but during the Exalted Council, she came dangerously close again. And for people to see her like that… 

Aside from a few outliers (Sera), the Inquisitor and her friends had always been careful to show themselves in the best possible light. Mindful of what Josephine was trying to accomplish, the Inquisitor had shown herself courteous to nobles (though she disliked them), wise in her decision-making, and still respectful towards a religion she didn’t follow (and overall acknowledged as little as possible). 

To be left to deal with the future of the Inquisition on her own, to “handle” both Ferelden and Orlais, and to have to explain to them the possibility of a Qunari invasion had been the first time since joining that Josephine had felt stepped on by people who she thought respected her. Had felt alone, and close to tears again. And the subsequent assurances from Leliana and the Lady Inquisitor had done little to soothe her.

Josephine bit her lip, staring at the dancing letters on the vellum in front of her.

She was nothing if not forgiving. And most of all she was just happy that a decision regarding the Inquisition had finally been made. Things were taking a straight course, her work was laid out for her, and she was finally able to make plans for herself. An option she hadn’t had in years. 

For a moment, her mind drew a blank.

What did she want?

Inevitably she would have to take her place as the head of the family, but it was uncertain when exactly. She knew her parents would want to retire not too long from now, but she would need some occupation in the meantime. 

A permanent return to Antiva… she would miss Orlais. She would miss Skyhold, and the Inquisition. But moving forward was the right thing to do. Treasure the good moments, and keep going. She only hoped that she would be able to leave with a clean conscious. 

Today marked the third day since their return from the Winter Palace, and the same number of days since the Inquisitor had been seen walking and talking. She had done neither since her retreat after the first War Council. Josephine had gone to see her friend twice so far, and each visit had proven more unsettling than the last.

Lady Amaryll Lavellan had lain in bed, listless, staring into nothingness. Unresponsive to any type of speech, be it from her ambassador, Seeker Pentaghast, Ser Rainier, or even Cole, who had barely left her side since the second day back in Skyhold. But even the gifted young man could not report any changes in Lady Lavellan’s current condition. 

“There is no cause to worry as of yet, Josie,” Leliana had said at the War Council earlier this morning, after Josephine had suggested sending for a healer from Val Royeaux. “The Inquisitor has much to contemplate and reflect upon. It is when we are at our lowest that our true strength reveals itself. She will join us again soon.”

“Agreed. We should give the woman some space,” had been Cullen’s contribution. ”By the time a healer arrives, she’ll be on her feet and back to charming the staff again.”

Josephine noticed that she was rhythmically tapping her quill onto the vellum. Not only was there a large, soggy hole in her letter to Lord Becker, but the tip of the quill had gone dull. Leaning back into the chair, she stared at the stain. 

How odd everything looked. It was just after midday, yet the thick blanket of clouds outside tricked Skyhold into feeling like the day was just about done. Josephine could sense it weighing on the fortress. The lay sisters that had accompanied them from the Winter Palace were floating through the halls as though they were crossing the Fade to the Maker’s side already. Most of the noble guests were staying in their chambers, some were complaining of headaches. The staff had been slower than usually, and Josephine could not say that she would rather be working than sitting someplace nice and read. 

For the first time in days, her drive to continuously work had decreased. There still was a mountain of work to be done, her attention demanded from dozens of direction. Yet the ambassador’s thoughts wandered directly out of her office, turned to walk past the Inquisitor’s throne, and opened the door that inevitably would lead them back to the one problem that did not have an immediate and apparent solution. 

Josephine placed her elbows on the table, leaned forward, and rubbed her eyes in spite of the charcoal she had applied today.

It broke her heart. 

It broke her heart and terrified her to see the woman she admired so… lifeless. 

On the second day after the return, when Lady Lavellan had failed to attend the follow up War Council, Josephine herself had gone to her quarters. She had suspected that a softer touch would be necessary to motivate the Inquisitor to go on with her duties. She had not been prepared for what she had found.

It seemed as though Lady Lavellan had not left her bed. Her hair was still in the braided up-do that her handmaiden had created for her during their journey from the Winter Palace. It looked dishevelled and loose, but it held. A few strands of the fine, pale hair hung into her ashen face. Where her skin usually looked plump, it was now visibly dry. Her dusty green eyes looked glazed over and dull. Uncanny in their emptiness. That alone had been enough to send a chill up Josephine’s arms, and it did not help that the Inquisitor was laying there as though carved from stone. Propped up on three big, yet somewhat deflated down pillows, with her blanket and the quilt pulled up to her chest, her arms placed by her sides. 

Everybody she had talked to about this situation had told her that Lady Lavellan would be fine. That she just needed time time. 

But why did it feel like they were losing her? 

Lady Lavellan was not eating, one of her handmaidens was telling Josephine. She was not touching the water, nor the wine, nor the milk nor ale nor juice nor any other liquid they were offering her; not even the chamber pot needed emptying at this point. The suggestion to bathe was met by deafness the same way everything else was. The Inquisitor did not react to anything, not even touch. Mara, who had been Josephine’s personal handmaiden before their return, confessed Delphine and her both did not dare to touch the Inquisitor any more.

She was wasting away. If this went any further, she would be naught but a shell. 

In an abrupt movement, Josephine stood up from her chair. 

“Lyonell!” She called out.

A few seconds went by before the door to her office opened and the Inquisition’s Stewart entered. 

“Lady Ambassador?” He asked. 

“Send for the surgeon, please. Tell her that Her Worship requires a physical examination owing to her indisposition. Let her know…” She halted. People were already gossiping. Josephine had instructed Mara to tell those who asked that the Inquisitor was resting after the ordeal in the Winter Palace. Anyone who had just fought off an Qunari invasion would do the same. The two servants were not to tell anyone about the Inquisitor’s true state. “Let her know that it is urgent and I trust in her utmost discretion. Send another messenger to fetch Enchanter Perth. He is to be told the same. Her Worship will be expecting them shortly.”

“Yes, my lady. Is there anything else?”

Now this could be tricky.

“I also need my appointment with Lord and Lady Charon rescheduled to their earliest convenience. You shall go to them personally and give them my deepest regrets, along with a bottle of Antivan Red that you are to retrieve from the wardrobe in my chambers. I trust you know how to handle them.”

“What should I tell them, my lady?”

“Tell them that there is an unexpected issue with one of our latest caravans that requires immediate action.”

This was the truth; a group of well-organized bandits had recently been making trouble along a major highway leading from Gwaren. Said trouble ended usually in upturned and abandoned carts by the side of the road, painted red. If they turned up at all.

This morning, a message had reached Leliana that one of their very own caravans had been attacked. And, in fact, this sort of occurrence was now growing to become a regularity for weeks - it was simply just now that the rogues had grown bold enough to attack a group that was flying Inquisition banners. A concerning sign. Had it not been for the numerous Inquisition soldiers escorting the merchants, they likely would never have received word of the disappearance. As it stood now, there were several wounded and two dead. 

The steward nodded and took his leave. Josephine considered sitting back down, but for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to. 

It was silly. 

The two healers would not arrive in Lady Lavellan’s chambers for another half hour, at the very least. It would take a few minutes until they received their summons, then Maker knew how long until they had gathered their equipment, and then they would still have to climb up to her quarters. Josephine most certainly had time to continue working for a bit.

But her mind started walking again, out to the door and through the main hall. She wondered if Cole was currently sitting at Lady Lavellan’s side or spending time with the minstrel that he had become so infatuated with. The thought caused a tickling sensation at the soles of her feet, and before she knew it, they were carrying her out of her office.

  
  


Before Josephine’s knuckles could knock against the wooden door, she halted herself to listen. 

Mara had come by after the War Council meeting this morning to give her word of how Lady Lavellan was faring; she never mentioned if Cole was there. And since this had been a given in the past few days, Josephine had not thought to ask. Indeed, she had not planned on visiting the Inquisitor’s chambers for the foreseeable future. It was this silly impulse that drove her here, based on previous minutes and hours they had spent more or less between the two. If Cole was indeed here, then what would she do?

Josephine’s chest ached for a moment. Perhaps she should do as Leliana and Cullen suggested and leave Lady Lavellan to sort herself without people continuously invading her private space. She closed her eyes and let the raised fist fall back to her side. Josephine’s ears were drumming. 

She stood there, unmoving, feeling torn. She saw herself open the door and walk up the set of stairs, turn after she arrived up there, and let her gaze fall onto the bed. What would she find?

Lady Lavellan, sitting up as the other woman entered, smiling with delight? 

“Josephine,” she might say, bright and glowing, her voice like a balm on searing skin. Burning pain, but with the promise of betterment. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Or would she lay there as she had? Looking more worn? Asleep in her wakefulness, destined to never stir again?

_ Maker, _ she prayed.  _ She has saved your creation several times over. For all that is just in the world, let her recover. She is needed still.  _

The diplomat straightened her back and lifted her hand once more. Silence was the only response she received to her knock. 

_ Boldness _ , she reminded herself, and entered.

The set of stairs that followed the door prolonged the dreaded suspense, and Josephine cursed to herself. When she finally arrived at its head and turned, her eyes immediately found the Inquisitor, and everything inside her clenched. It had been too much to hope for. If she didn’t look too intently, Lady Lavellan could even make the impression that she was expecting her visitor. Except that her half-lidded eyes were staring into empty air.

“Your Worship,” Josephine addressed the other woman, to no avail. Lady Lavellan was not moving.

Josephine’s tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth as she continued looking at the Inquisitor for just a bit longer. She then averted her attention to the rest of the room.

“Cole?” She called. 

But the young man was nowhere to be seen. Not on the chaiselongue, not on the balcony, not by the overflowing desk. Josephine’s gaze fell upon Lady Lavellan’s two bows by the wall behind her desk. The older, smaller one, was enclosed in a display case of glass and wood. It was obvious that it had snapped in half and splintered at some point, but had gone through the process of attempted repair. It was the bow that Lady Lavellan had travelled to the Conclave years ago, the bow that had accompanied her throughout the first few months of the Inquisition.

The second one was propped carefully against the case. Adorned with runes and violet magical jewels, broad and high and strong, it was a bow that Josephine knew was almost as tall as its owner. She always wondered how the small elf managed to carry the thing, much less stealthily shoot people. Although now, it came to her, that question would not matter anymore.

The ambassador looked back to Lady Lavellan, stepped closer.

“Inquisitor,” she began again. Since there was no way to be sure whether or not Lady Lavellan could understand what was said to her, Josephine chose to do the polite thing and assume she could. Without further ado, she straightened her back and laid the palm of one hand over the other in front of her belly. “Inquisitor, since you have been indisposed these past few days I have taken the liberty to ask for Enchanter Perth and Surgeon Terese to come here for an examination. I do hope that you don’t mind. We are… quite concerned for you.” 

She let silence ring for a few seconds without turning her face away from Lady Lavellan. When she received no response whatsoever, she cleared her throat. 

This was… difficult. 

Eventually, Josephine’s poise slacked a little. The polite thing to do would be to sit herself down on the chaiselongue and wait for the arrival of the healers. Or better still, simply stand. However that was not what she had come her for, not truly. 

Even though it scared her, Josephine gave into the mild pull that drove her to move closer and closer to the Inquisitor’s bed. She came to a halt with her trousers rustling against the thick mattress. A shallow breath out, a long one in. Then she began cautiously taking in her friend’s appearance. 

Her skin looked greyer, if that was even possible, and patches of dry skin started to flake off different spots on her face; even from the delicate tattoos that graced her cheekbones. Josephine glanced at Lady Lavellan’s lips. They had not always looked so thin and shrivelled. Her cheeks had not always been so sunken in. Dark, violet shadows had begun circling the woman’s eyes as well. Her hair was greasy, barely keeping to its braided structure. This at least, provided some comfort; the loose strands of the coiffeur spoke to movement; Lady Lavellan had stirred.

Josephine’s chest lowered with an exhale that came from deep within her belly. Perhaps things were not quite so dire. Perhaps her friend would wake any day now and go back to being her ordinary self soon.

Looking down at the face she knew so well, Josephine’s hand moved towards the woman’s cheek as if on its own. Sweetness on her tongue, basking in sunlight and affection, sweetness in her heart. Hours spent with thoughts running wild and uninhibited, like rabbits in a clearing, free.

Oh, how she missed it.

Josephine’s back lowered itself and she took a half-step forward. The moment before her lips could touch the elf’s skin, the ambassador stilled for a powerful heartbeat long. 

If she were having to explain to someone right this instant what she was doing, she wouldn’t be able to. It was something rooted deep in her chest that slung ropes around her lungs and _pulled_. This was inappropriate. But it was so necessary.

“Amaryll.” The name that had always lain on her lips but never before left them. The most intimate incantation.

Another pain full drum in her chest, then the ambassador pressed her lips against the Inquisitor’s forehead. The scent of Lady Lavellan's unwashed skin was biting the inside of her nose. But something behind the sourness and and bitter note, something smooth and soft, reminded Josephine of a dry Antivan wine, and so she breathed in deeper, lingering.

Eventually, she pulled away and froze when she saw that Lady Lavellan’s eyes had dropped shut. Where earlier they had been half open, the dull green of their iris’s glazed over, their lids had now fallen closed. 

Andraste preserve her. 

The Inquisitor’s eyes opened slowly, as though it took a great effort. Like before they seemed not to take in much at all.

“Inquisitor-,” she began, grasping for an explanation, any explanation for her conduct.

Something in the woman's expression changed, her eyes drew focus, and she raised her head towards Josephine. But there was no recognition, and Josephine’s mouth dried out at once. She looked confounded, irritated and disoriented, as though she were trying to place what she saw into a context she could not read. Whether she was displeased about what she saw, or about her inability to process her surroundings, Josephine could not tell. All she knew was that she was suddenly terrified.

“You helped,” an airy voice stated out of nowhere.

A yelp escaped the ambassador as she twirled around. Cole, who was standing there like a misplaced piece of furniture in the doorway to the balcony, was looking at her with all the peace in the world.

“You startled me,” Josephine explained when she regained her composure. “Forgive me my tone.”

“Thank you,” he replied as he walked closer. When he finally almost stood in front of her, his gaze slid to the Inquisitor. “She is open.”

“I’m afraid I do not follow, Cole-“

“Look.”

His finger rose to point to where Lady Lavellan was sitting up, slowly, laborously.

“ _They poison her food and drink, she knows it,”_ Cole cited without missing a beat. _"The hounds in the shadows are waiting for her to fall asleep, for weakness, but for as long as she is awake they dare not move._ _Death will stop the spinning colors, the mocking noises in her ears. It can’t be long now, until things are finally quiet inside and out. Home lays under the gnarled tree in the tundra._ ”

Rustling of sheets and blankets filled what would have been a frantic quiet, and Cole slid smoothly to his friend’s side, supporting her with his slender hands under her upper arms.

“What does it mean?” Josephine asked lowly in his direction, never taking her eyes of the Inquisitor.  _ Maker, calm my racing heart. _

Cole looked up under the brim of his generous hat, pale eyes sparkling, lips opening, when a demanding knock pierced the air.

“Cole!” Josephine whispered urgently.

Heavy Steps sounded on the wooden steps.

“It means you helped, Josephine,” Cole said softly. “She will be alright." 


	4. Cole I

Amaryll jerked into consciousness, and up in her bed, when the sky outside was of a pallid violet. 

She was alone, for once, though traces of strangers were all over her chamber. The scent of lavender hung sickeningly heavy in the heated air. Her desk held not towers of books, nor arrows, nor games, nor sketches or wine, but bushels of dried herbs, vials and bottles. A plate she could not remember eating from stood on her bedside table, and a goblet that smelled of lavender as well. 

Almost as if to punish her, the Inquisitor’s head started spinning, and for a little while she believed to see a wolf in the shadow between her desk and the wall across the room. But then the world came to a still, and the predator was gone - even if the drumming in her chest would have her believe otherwise. 

She didn’t know it, but it was the dawn of the fourth day since Halamshiral. Since the day before yesterday she had been magically calmed the same number of times, in order to get her to eat and drink without a struggle. The surgeon had diagnosed her with an excess of black bile, which supposedly rendered her melancholic. And since black bile was associated with the coldest and driest of the four humours, the treatment consisted of the exact opposite: she was to take in a lot of soft, moist, spicy foods, lots of liquids, have her skin moisturized frequently to void tears, and her chambers were to be heated to combat the cold in Amaryll’s bones. The lavender was to help as well, thus the overabundance of it. 

Amaryll did not remember any of it, however. Not the poking and prodding by the surgeon and the enchanter, not Josephine standing near, almost shaking.

She remembered fragments of her fears and nightmares, continuous plays of light. Darkness, sunshine, eating and breaking their way through colored glass. The Iron Bull, sitting on her divan, slowly turning his head with the flaming arrow of hers that had pierced his remaining eye, talking to her.  _ It could’ve been different, you know? _ Qunari and wolves and demons shoring along the walls of her chamber, growling, bound to the shadows. Waiting for a show of weakness as their cue to pounce.

She also recalled a noise like cutlery against glass that incessantly rang in her ears. 

Clearer than anything else that stood out, however, were the only coherent words that she remembered from a conversation that’d taken place last night.

The voice of a woman, a stranger, saying: “Do you think it’ll help?”

And another: “Doubt it. Mad with grief is not easily cured.”

“How do you know it’s grief and not something else? Enchanter Perth said there’s no demon, but she might’ve been poisoned.”

“Hmpf. Whoever would have her poisoned would be making sure she’d die, don’t you think? Not lay around-” A whisper. “No. Grieving, I tell you. Over the traitors.”

“The Iron Bull. I cannot believe…”

“Because you ogled him from the start. Before Arwyn.”

“Mara! That’s not true.”

“Is, too.”

“I was just wondering…” Pause. “ _ The other one, that boy… they say he reads minds. The Iron Bull was with us for a long while, the apostate longer. Could he not have- not have done something? And all the _ -” Her voice trailed off.

“ _ The elves who left _ . I’m sorry, Delphine. I know Arwyn meant a lot to you.”

It was only the following morning, hours and hours later, that this fragment of the conversation came back to Amaryll. 

_ The other one, that boy, they say he reads minds. The Iron Bull was with us a long while, the apostate longer. Could he not have done something about it? And all the elves who left? _

The words were devoid of meaning to Amaryll Lavellan when she first heard them echo within herself, sitting alone in the silent room. It was much like wearing a loose shirt that then got caught on something. She stood still, couldn’t tear herself away by force lest it ripped. 

_ Could he... not have done something? _

Amaryll sank back onto her cold, sweat-soaked pillow. The next few hours she spent going over what had happened again and again. Turning every event over, inspecting it and its outcomes. Peering at its core, trying to place it into the bigger context. She tried remembering everything she could. Every conversation she’d had with her companions, every elf, everyone she’d met since she woke up in Haven’s dungeon. Every choice she’d made on her own behalf, then those made on behalf of others, then those made on behalf of entire groups of people. 

As time went on, the emptiness inside Amaryll gave way to uninhibited frenzy. A buzzing sensation was sending tremors through every limb of hers, until she couldn’t possibly lay still for a second longer. Without a thought for anything but the questions swirling in her mind, the Inquisitor left her quarters - undressed, and barefoot. She walked out into the Main Hall, never hearing the shocked gasps that accompanied her entrance, and took the first door on the right to Lady Montilyet’s office. 

Josephine lifted her head when she entered and her eyes widened. She looked like she was seeing a specter.

“Ambassador Montilyet,” Lady Amaryll greeted her. Her voice sounded detached and authoritative. Depleted of all warmth it ever held, and filled to the brim with lightning.

Instinctively, Josephine stood up as fast as she could. No words came to mind, except: “Inquisitor.”

She was not required to say anything, however. 

“I would have a messenger sent to fetch Cole,” Lady Lavellan requested, aiming for the next door as she walked. “He is to meet me in the War Room. We are not to be disturbed, there are to be no eyes in front of the widows or ears in the walls or at the door.”

Josephine’s eyes followed her, inspected her. When no answer came from the ambassador, Amaryll halted and stared back at her. She was not in any condition to process any information held in the other woman’s face. 

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Josephine said eventually. 

Without another word, the elf strode on out of the office and towards the War Room. Leaving Josephine harrowed, confused, and worried.

“Cole! It is good I get to see you before the Lady Inquisitor does.”

_ Running in circles, fear bunching up like a blanket in her belly. Taking space where other things are blooming, tumbling out of mind as soon as they appear. _

Josephine had been evidently walking up and down her office, and her bottom lip was plump from biting. Cole lifted his head to meet her gaze when she came up to him; she felt safer looking into his eyes, even if they unsettled her.

“Amaryll - Her Worship is still unwell. She seems-”

Words were eluding her, phrases that rang untrue or harsh were the only ones that came to mind.

“You can say what you mean,” Cole reminded her gently, and the woman drew air into her lungs at once.

“She seems erratic and demanded no-one listen to the conversation. I called for Seeker Cassandra and Rainier to be stationed outside of the room. Should you require… assistance, yell, and they will come to aid you.” 

“It will be alright, Josephine,” he promised. 

Her pale eyes searched his face. Worry was etched into them, but eventually her expression softened a bit. 

“Be careful.”

Cole nodded. In a gesture of reassurance he reached for her hand and squeezed it. 

“ _ Stolen purple berries staining tongue and cheek, laughter in her fist, as Madame Jouer is walking past them, overlooking two small girls in the bushes, _ ” he suggested and watched the last wrinkle of concern disappear from between the ambassador’s eyebrows.

Leaving her with a pleasant childhood memory, he then moved on. 

“We are here,” Cassandra told him when he approached. 

Thom was quiet, never lifting his hand off the hilt of his sheathed sword. The warrior had the impulse to throw open the door and confront the danger heads-on. It was inconceivable to him that one of his closest friends herself was to be it.

“She is safe,” Cole said in his direction, and watched the blue in his eyes deepen.

The part of him that would forever remain ethereal felt Amaryll before Cole had even opened the door to the War Room. Upon entering he sensed a wave of frantic animosity directed his way, daggers sharp and hot. When he pushed past them, coming closer, he realized that there was something wrong. 

Colors. To many of them. Whirring about her, clashing, drowning, pushing, tearing, beating. A cloud of pain and confusion was enveloping the woman, as dense as the fog she liked to disappear in. There was no coming closer without triggering hostility, and so Cole stood several feet away from the War Table, behind which Amaryll had positioned herself.

“You’re upset,” he said to break the silence, find a way in.

He reached out to her, further and further. It should have been easy to reach in once the anchor was gone, but it hadn’t been. There’d been two of her. Or rather one of her inside her body, and another one a little to the  _ left of her body _ . He’d tried explaining it to Enchanter Perth as well, but he didn’t understand. There was no sickness, only  _ her, coming to the surface after years of pushing down and pushing and pushing and pushing- _

_ Chain a bird to stone and watch it struggle _ . 

Because she was his friend, and because the anchor was gone, and because she was finally open, he could feel that she was  _ raw _ . An open flesh wound, hot and steaming like glowing iron in water, like a person’s last breath in the snow. Cole pulled back, he had to, or he’d have to be afraid to be sucked in and devoured.

“How is it,” Amaryll asked, after a long while of them standing face to face across the room, as if unaware of the chaos swirling about her, “that you spent over half a year in everybody’s mind?” Her voice cracked, thinned as it was coming out of her dry throat and mouth. "Please tell me how you’ve been with us for so long, on close quarters, reaching into people’s heads, and last week was the first time I’ve heard of the infiltration.”

He had an answer. Though he was unsure if she would listen to it. If she could hear it over everything else. 

“You’re unwell,” Cole ventured forward again, gentler than before. 

He took a silent step towards the table, and her emotional landscape. It was loud. Everything about her was screaming at him, and he recoiled once again. But his feet never moved back.

“Hundreds of elves.”

_ Wound up, wound tight, trapped in a ball of yarn, with loops hanging out everywhere, but no end, nowhere to start untangling. _

_ She isn’t hearing. She isn’t listening.  _

“And Solas-,“ she croaked.  She receded. Said his name but thought of someone else. And Cole could finally grasp at a wisp of something, tug it, pull it closer and-

“The hundreds of hours that you two spent while we were travelling, talking about things no-one else could see or understand. You knew that Thom wasn’t Warden Blackwall before anyone else.  Did you know this time as well? Who he was? What he was planning?”

Cole’s mind stilled. 

“ _ The thread between him and here was thin. Glowing, a beacon here and there at once. Wisdom’s friend was younger than the world, but older than his pain. Bitten into his goal, he cannot change, he cannot see, he has to mend what he has sharded _ .”

Amaryll across the room was shaking violently, so much so that strands of her greased hair was falling into her face, her wrinkly, sweat-soaked nightgown slipping off her right shoulder.

“ _She says the little ones matter the most_ ,” he continued. “ _It’s the little ones that make things big. He pulls away and waits, hesitates, debates_. _A young man’s folly for an old man’s pain. A moment’s doubt is almost detrimental. Sacrifice it is either way. One unbearable, the other unimaginable. She almost changed his mind._ ” 

A heartbeat’s pause from her, the swirls around her slowed as a breath caught in Amaryll’s throat. Then, quick and violent as a lighting bolt, her hands whirred through the air and slammed on the table. Cole flinched.

“ _ Did you know _ ?” the Inquisitor screamed. “ _ Did you know what he was going to do _ ?” 

He exhaled with a push, then pulled his shoulders back. Too loud. Her rage, her hurt, her fear, they were too loud for her to hear.

“I didn’t,” Cole said with force. “There was aching, sorrow, pride from him. Solas never told me. He didn’t have to, for us to be friends.”

“And the elves?” Amaryll pushed. “Did none of them think of it? His plans to destroy Thedas? You said the Wolf was conflicted, and he wasn’t even of this world. Are you telling me they, who had grown up in it, felt… felt good about it all?”

“ _ I will lead us against Corypheus, and I will be an ambassador. I’m an elf standing for Thedas. The Inquisition is for all. _ ”

Amaryll’s tense expression slid off her face at this quote. Colors around her stopped slashing, grew foggy, as she seemed to recall the day she took on her title. 

“They thought him and I worked together,” she finally said, directed at the table. Her voice had grown meek, her pitch higher than usually. The elf swayed forward but caught the fall by pressing the palm of her hand to the table’s surface. “And the Qunari elves fulfilled the demand of the Qun. Of course there would be no conflict there.”

Cole tilted his head, never letting her out of sight. He stepped closer and closer while she still wrestled herself. Just when he had almost reached the table, her gaze shot up and through him, as though it was one of her arrows. 

“Cole,” she scowled. “I hope you know where you stand. Because if the day comes and I call on you to stand against Solas and  _ you won’t _ , then you better walk out now. Nobody would hinder or hunt you. But may the Creators have mercy on you if I ever saw you again, because I wouldn’t. I won’t suffer another friend turning their blade against me.”

For little while he felt like his tongue had been ripped out of his body, and a shattering clung in his mind. Cole looked at his friend and tried to understand. Tried to feel for her. But the way Amaryll looked at him made it difficult. He saw rage, righteousness, and lust for retribution. Except he’d never done anything to hurt her. He only ever sought to help.

Without trying to, he lost the connection. The rainbow storm around her faded, but ironically that made the Inquisitor almost harder to recognize. Never before had he experienced the sensation he did as he was staring back into the steeled eyes of the woman who used to always look at him with such kindness.

_ Little brother, she would call me. Now she is breaching boundaries that could break our bond. Heed the heart you had, sister. Sorrow cannot drown out sympathy. _

Cole straightened his back and lifted his chin. The steel in Amaryll’s eyes started flaking, her cheeks quivering. And this time, it was Cole who opened himself up. 

Slowly, the woman lowered her eyes, her face, until hair fell to cover it. The change came abruptly. Her back curved over the desk, and her body started clenching and unclenching like a fist. Drops of saltwater hit the wooden surface, and the first sob broke from her lips. By the time Cole reached her, Amaryll’s right hand had give way and her elbows were what was holding her up, with her face two inches at most from the desk. The woman sobbed uncontrollably, barely breathing.

_ Grief for lost souls and lost loves and lost lives. Grief for ruins and broken promises. Grief for a self she never knew. Grief for a future she cannot paint. _

With his hands on each of her shoulders, he pulled her into a stand and to his chest. He met no resistance, only heated tears and an abyss that swallowed all the color in the room.

Eventually, the tremors ceased. 

“Things out of sight don’t stop existing,” he murmured. “Not lives saved, not friends, not you.”

He pushed her away just enough to meet her puffy face. Amaryll did not smile, but she was neither bursting nor empty anymore. Just exhausted from the sudden swings, and her broken heart. She would be alright.

This was when Cole nudged her to turn, and was able to lead her out of the War Room. As soon he pushed the door open using his shoulder, there was a sound of swords being pulled out of their sheathing. Just as quickly as they were drawn, however, they were pushed back into place; Thom was the first to come and lend the rogue a hand. The Inquisitor was a small person even by elven standards, barely half a head taller than a dwarf. Tall, lanky Cole had a hard time steering her. But together with Thom, trailed by Cassandra, he accompanied the leader of the Inquisition as she stumbled ever forward - once again passive to her environment. 

In the ambassador’s office, they were greeted by a distressed Josephine and a composed Leliana. 

“What is the situation?” she asked immediately after looking over the Inquisitor and determining that she was not present enough to be directed any questions toward.

“I would like to know that as well,” Cassandra added from the back and walked around the small group that had come to a stand.

_ The walls raised high, but wind is beating them from both sides. None the wiser, often left without word. _

“It’s all right,” Cole said, putting pillowy emphasis on every syllable. “She was scared and angry, but she is tired now. It’s not her fault. She needs to rest.”

“Agreed.” Thom bent over slightly to try and catch a glimpse of Amaryll’s face beneath the hair. “And a bath.”

“I shall call for one right away,” Josephine said.

Everybody was quiet for a moment. Cole felt a push, and he yielded.

“I will take her,” he offered, gently pulling her away from Thom. 

_ His fingers miss her skin as soon as they leave it, every time there is an ache, a comfort in the warmth that he will never have, but he has her smile. _

_ It is for the best. _

Slowly, carefully, Cole bent reached to put his hands back on Amaryll’s shoulders and herded her out. Back in her quarters, he placed her on the divan instead of her bed, and crouched in front of her. She almost felt locked again, beside herself the way she’d been since the Winter Palace. But this time he knew better.

His friend felt  _ everything _ at such a staggering intensity that her mind went blank. It didn’t take away the hurt, the love, the guilt, the fury, or the dread. But it buried it, until it was ready to resurface and break everything it touched. 

There had to be a solution. To the fear she felt that amplified everything tenfold. 

_ Home lies under the gnarled tree in the tundra. _

  
  


“This is a disaster,” Josephine pushed out from between her lips. “The leader of the Inquisition, lost in complete madness, wandering the fortress in nothing but dirty undergarments, looking like- like-”

“A beggar,” Cassandra completed.

“We have a bigger problem than her reputation, don’t we?” Thom countered with clear disapproval. 

“Quite,” Josephine replied pointedly. “However, this does not mean that the Inquisitor’s reputation, and by extension the reputation of the entire organization, has ceased to matter simply because we are to be dissolved.” She breathed in, held it for a moment, and the others waited. “I don’t know how to spin this. How many people saw her?”

“Too many.” Cassandra lifted her chin. “Whispers were spreading as I was making my way here.”

“Indeed.” 

Leliana removed herself from the tension of the circle and gracefully walked over to the fireplace. Josephine took this as a cue to move, as well, and retreated to the safety of her heavy wooden desk. There were no words to describe the way she was feeling. From the moment that the Inquisitor had appeared in her office, her heart had been sitting in her belly. 

“Fortunately,” Leliana continued, “Lady Lavellan did not take any other route than the direct one here. I counted four of our noble guests talking in the Main Hall on my way here. Charter is tasked with keeping track of them and who they talk to. We cannot spin this, but we can muffle the words. Any letter sent out of Skyhold will be monitored and pulled as required.”

“Is that really necessary?” Thom objected. The Nightingale’s blank stare when she turned to look at him had his mouth go dry.

“Absolutely,” Josephine said decisively. “Rumors as to the Inquisitor’s state could severely damage our efforts to gracefully conclude the Inquisition’s time. They could also affect the people of Skyhold who depend on her good reputation in order to find employment after they leave. This must be kept quiet. For the Inquisition’s sake, as well as Lady Lavellan’s. We  _ cannot _ have her turned into a tragic joke in the last few weeks of her time with us,” she concluded with a passion that prompted further silence from the others.

“Which brings us to the other matter at hand,” Cassandra began after a while. “Cole approached me yesterday about something he says might help.”

“What would that be?” Leliana asked.

“An oil. He- he said he looked into the ambassador’s trading manifests-“ Josephine’s mouth opened in protest. “-and found a shipment from the Free Marches that ought to arrive here in Skyhold soon. In two week's time. He suggested him and I ride ahead to retrieve it as soon as possible.”

“What manner of oil is this?” Josephine poked.

“I do not know.” Cassandra’s brows drew close over her darkened eyes. " _ From the gnarled tree _ , was all he said.  _ Home _ .”

Whatever the round was thinking, each member held their tongue. Thom, however, was also keeping his eyes trained on the ambassador, whose face had shown a spark of recognition. A spark that was surrounded by discomfort that quickly retreated under a mask of neutral participation.

Thom was itching to prod. There was something about the way Lady Montilyet was hiding her thoughts.

“What do you think, Cassandra?” Leliana asked the warrior.

“In spite of his… nature, he has always been reliable. Him and the Inquisitor have been close friends. He may be holding the key to her betterment.”

“Rainier?”

Thom startled. “I say it’s worth a try, if nothing else. But what do we do if it doesn’t help?”

“I know of a few cloisters that would offer sanctuary to the Inquisitor,” was the Spymaster's reply. "The Revered Mother of one is known for her discretion. She would take good care of Lady Lavellan. If either of you,” she directed at the warriors, “would be willing to accompany her, then we could sort things in her absence.”

Cassandra said nothing to this suggestion, but Thom could read on her face that she was torn over it.

“Leave Skyhold weeks before the Inquisition ends?” he asked darkly. “Her friends, her only home?”

“It would be for the best. She would understand. The Inquisition has always been the most important thing to her, above all else.”

“I’m not sure she would agree if she were here.”

“Stop this,” Josephine interrupted sharply. “Her Worship might have an answer to this question, but as of now she cannot give one. We must work together and focus on controlling the damage. 

“I agree with Rainier,” Cassandra said without ever once looking at him. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable riding with her in such a state. She can barely hold herself up to stand, how is she supposed to mount a horse? The Inquisitor is safest here, where we can have an eye on her.”

“While she slowly deteriorates, confined to her chamber?” Leliana challenged. “That is no kindness.”

None of them had seen or heard Cole enter, but suddenly he was there. 

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” he said. “Not if we get the oil."


	5. Varric I

“Serah Alerion is here, my lord,” Bran announced, his voice drenched in the usual distaste. 

_Ah, Merrill._

“Take the lime out of your face, Bran,” Varric shot back. “Let her in.”

“Lord Halward is expecting-“

“And he won’t mind expecting me a little longer. What do they say in Rivain? The expectation’s sweeter than the actual event? I am paraphrasing of course.”

The idiom he was thinking of had been used by Rivaini at some point. With more flowery language, but Varric elected to not do that to the man standing in his office. The seneschal’s lips had already thinned into nothingness, he wouldn’t want the man to completely collapse into himself. Or at least Varric thought that he didn’t want that.

“I will let the guards know,” he said after a while. “I assume Serah Alerion will be wanting to take a stroll in the garden again.”

Varric nodded in acknowledgment and thanked the Maker when his seneschal left. The man’s sourly sober way would be a strain on anyone with a bit’s worth of humour in their bones. The persistence with which he avoided joy in his life, Varric worried that the man would drop dead the day that the corners of his mouth lifted for anything but a condescending smirk. But he did take his work seriously, and placed his ambitions where they could do the most good - which was more than Varric could say for most people could have gotten Bran’s job.

It was over a week now that Varric had returned to the love of his life, and a few days since he had officially been appointed its viscount. To his dismay, he was already feeling an itch in his fingers whenever he caught a glimpse of Bianca, propped on her beautiful stand in the office 

He thought himself a patient person, but the relentless swarm of people who were pushing themselves on him made him feel like there was a loophole that he hadn’t discovered yet. How in the void was he supposed to support Kirkwall’s commerce and infrastructure if he had to exchange small talk and swat away nonsensical noble requests all day? No, there had to be a better way to go about his daily business. Only that Bran wouldn’t tell him how, and perhaps snapping at him like he had earlier wasn’t helpful. 

Daisy’s visits helped. Red had dropped by twice to congratulate him and shallowly catch up, but her work kept her almost as busy as Varric’s did him. And so he found himself all the more grateful to see Merrill’s face. 

That was, if she was ever going to arrive. 

“Andraste’s ass,” Viscount Tethras swore. “I thought Bran said she was here.”

Energetically stepping through his office, he went to investigate the disappearance of his friend. It didn’t take much to solve the mystery. And the result did not disappoint.

A bit commotion was being raised by the entrance hall to his keep; no more, no less than a dozen young mabari hounds were being delivered by a small squadron of guards and one merchant. Visitors around were either cooing lovingly or hissing with disapproval. 

And among them: Daisy, kneeling amidst the young dogs, talking at them in a conversational manner, while Bran was standing nearby and staring daggers up to the railing where Varric was standing. The Viscount in turn, gifted him with the slyest grin he had in his repertoire. It dropped, however, when Aveline appeared on the opposite side of the room. 

The Guard-Captain rested her hands on the railing, leaning forward to inspect the commotion. Then, clearly unbelieving, she straightened herself and followed Bran’s gaze until she found the one responsible for this surprise; she started stomping over the same time as the Seneschal decided to confront him. 

_Ah. Showtime._

Varric put on a deliberate air of nonchalance just before Bran reached the head of the stairs. 

“My lord,” the Seneschal addressed him, his voice strained as ever.

“Yes, Seneschal?”

“What is the meaning of this?” Red interrupted. All that was missing was her stemming her hands onto her hips. 

“Why, hello Guard-Captain,” Varric greeted her cheerily.

“Cut the crap, V- my lord.” Aveline furrowed her brow, and now did end up putting her hands on her armor where the hips would be. “Why are there a dozen mabari pups in the vestibule?”

“My question precisely,” Bran added.

“Well, Guard-Captain,” Varric said, lifting his chin and folding his hands behind his back. “Do I not recall correctly that you said the Champion’s mabari was missed dearly in the barracks? And how helpful her service to the guard had been? Ferelden has been training mabaris for such work for a long time, Guard-Captain.” Red’s lips thinned at this. “When I was met with an opportunity to acquire a few young ones for our guard, I couldn’t possibly pass it up, now could I? I assumed you’d be pleased.”

Aveline’s cheeks and nose changed from the freckled white to a sheer red. She loathed it when he brought up things in the Keep that she’d said in the drunken privacy of the Hanged Man. And having brought up information that she, as a Fereldan, damn well knew herself didn’t make her any calmer.

“And how will these pups be paid for?” Bran shot. “These merchants are claiming they have not yet been paid, and are demanding their due. Which is, if you allow me to speak freely, quite steep. This is exactly the same business as the Key to The City, _you cannot make these big decisions without consulting-_ ”

Varric watched the man’s face turn pinker and pinker, and silently wondered if he wasn’t a bad person after all. But, eh. There were other times when he could ponder the question. Best to live in the moment. 

“These mabari are an investment for the good of the city, Seneschal,” he said melodiously and slow. “So naturally, the city’s coffer will compensate the merchants. What?” He couldn’t reign in the little laughter when Bran’s eyes threatened to pop out of his skull. “Should I have paid the considerable sum out of my own pocket? Consider this my first, well, preliminary act as Viscount.”

Varric’s eyes caught a slim silhouette that was very familiar to him arrive at the top of the stairs.

“And who will train these investments?” Red asked pointedly and trained her look all the harder on her superior once she realized he was getting distracted. “And clean after these investments? Deliah is a full grown bitch, the pups down there are barely big enough to reach my knee! How much time, Viscount, will it take of my men to train them until they are of use to us?”

“I could help!” Daisy interrupted, and Varric bit back his chuckle. “I’ve been missing Deliah, it would be good to have some fresh mabari blood back in the city.”

“Merrill, that’s not-” was as far as Red came before letting out an exasperated sigh. 

And so Daisy, in her usual cheery and helpful nature, had effectively shut down the argument. Bran’s shoulders dropped, even if his glare towards the floor was still mildly venomous. 

“Seneschal,” Varric said, aiming for a tone that suggested reconciliation. “Please be so kind as to direct one of the merchants to my office in order for us to settle the payment. Afterwards you may leave for the day if you so please. Guard-Captain-” He turned to Aveline. “-there is no cause to worry about the mabari training. One of the men down there is a reputable trainer, who is supposed to oversee the pups’ settlement into the City Guard. He is very much invested in their well-being and this enterprise. Serah Gilden stands ready for any concerns you may have, and should those not be alleviated after talking to him, then my door is of course always open.” Red raised her upper lip in disapproval at the charming rumble that Varric had laid under his voice. “And I think - if I’m not mistaken - aren’t those your latest recruits ruffling with the dogs?”

All three of them turned around. Varric didn’t have to see Aveline’s face to know exactly what expression it was carrying. A tiny sliver of guilt at the joy he felt for proving Aveline wrong surfaced, but it was vastly overwhelmed by the sensation of success.

“If you have trouble finding men to spend time with a dozen mabari puppys, then I’ll shave my back and call myself King of the Nugs,” he added, and for this received a stabbing look from his Guard Captain. 

Daisy, on the other hand, snickered.

_Yes_ , he thought when Aveline and Bran finally excused themselves to get back to work. _I am a bad, bad man._

Once everything was dealt with (and Varric made sure it was all done neatly and in the most curteous way), Merrill and him were free to retreat into his office. It’d taken long enough and he was glad to finally point his friend to a chair and grab a seat for himself.

“So, Daisy,” Varric said with a slight grunt as he let himself drop into his chair. “How are you? What can I do for you?”

“I’m well, my lord, thank you.”

A short exhale escaped him as he peered into the elf’s earnest and serious face. He started to slowly but surely understand how the Inquisitor must’ve felt once she’d taken her office. Varric felt he had to make an extra effort to reel his friends closer. Some of them, of course, were scattered across Thedas, such as Rivaini and Broody. And occasionally Hawke as well. But Aveline had certainly taken on a particularly serious air when she was talking to him, even outside the Keep, and that said something. Which was why he’d so often bought the rounds at the Hanged Man for her, otherwise she’d never loosen up. And now Daisy, too, after seeing him in action, so to speak.

“Oh come on, Daisy. I told you, you don’t have to be so formal when we talk in the Keep. I’m still me.” 

“I know. But I haven’t come for a chat, Varric.”

He sat up. “What’s going on?”

“There has been another murder in the Alienage.”

For a moment, there was no sound in the room except for breathing.

“That makes three in just as many weeks. What does Aveline say?”

“The same thing she always says. She has someone investigating, but the Guard is stretched thin.”

Merrill’s disapproval was tangible, and Varric couldn’t blame her. Capable as she was on many accounts, Aveline was not always the most… compassionate person.

“Is Hawke coming to town soon?” she continued. “I think _she_ may care.”

“Oh, I’m sure Aveline cares. She is just-” 

Varric's attempt at appeasing Merrill didn’t go as well as he’d hoped, he could see it in her large, green, suspicious eyes. Andraste’s ass, he would have to find a new nickname for her soon. There were fewer and fewer moments in which the Daisy he knew now compared to the almost childlike Dalish little bloodmage he’d met years and years ago. She’d grown up, alright. Though Hawke would tell him that Merrill had never been the child he’d made the elf out to be; she had simply been different.

Varric coughed.

“She should be here tomorrow at the latest,” he finally answered her question. “And Daisy- when you two go hunting for the bad guy, I’d like to come with.”

Merrill’s eyes opened wider than should have been possible, and for a second Varric felt he saw Daisy. 

“Really? You would do that? But isn’t being a viscount keeping you busy?”

“Yeah, you know. Bianca is missing some fresh air and action. And I can’t say I don’t, either. So it’s settled. We’ll go hunting.”


	6. Cole II

_Sadness, bundling up in his belly into a tight ball, getting heavier, heavier, heavier, making him sink, sink, sink…_

_She hated travelling, never properly felt safe, and that little knife in her skirts wouldn’t do much if a bandit were to grab her, were to-_

_Oh, what if she didn’t get along with the new troop? Orlesians were known to be uptight and weird. She’d gotten along with the Orlesian soldiers at Skyhold, but it had taken work. Balls, maybe it was a mistake to go to that army. She wondered if Commander Cullen could-_

A warm, broad hand on the soldier’s shoulder. 

“A man named Auguste is homesick. He is supposed to go to Denerim, but he doesn’t want to. Perhaps Commander Cullen can arrange a switch.”

She looked up in surprise- she had never noticed Cole before.

“Talk to him.”

It was more confusion than anything that made the soldier agree and get up to leave Herald’s Rest. Maryden, in the middle of a song, saw him and smiled. He smiled back and took the seat. 

He hadn’t specifically given the soldier a push so he could take her seat, but it was a welcome side effect. It did have a better view of his love. 

Cassandra and Cole had only just now returned from their short mission. The scent of the tree in the Inquisitor’s hallucination had been familiar. It hadn’t taken long to look through Josephine’s shipping manifestos and check all the shipments coming from the Free Marches. His idea had fallen on fruitful ground: a merchant from Wycome would be bringing in different regional wares - among them cedar nut oil. 

Within a few hours Cassandra and Cole had packed their saddlebags, mounted their respective horses and left Skyhold. That had been six days ago. The day before yesterday they had encountered the merchant just as him and his company were about to rent rooms in an inn by the Main Road. The ambassador’s letter convinced him to relinquish the cedar nut oil for the promise of double the compensation. 

They’d spent the night in the very same inn to get some rest and left at first light, riding mostly in silence as they were pressing their sturdy Fereldan horses for all they were worth. 

By now the lavender should have long left the Inquisitor’s chamber and be replaced by the scent of the diffused oil. Soon, she would hopefully feel safe and calm again, ready to become herself. Soon, Cole would be able to focus on the other people in Skyhold who needed help in their transition from the Inquisition. 

And on his own future. 

Cole kept his eyes on Maryden. Her cheeks colored in deep rose, her strong dark brows. The elegant length of her face, and how she looked in the leather vest and the forest green, padded shirt she wore. She didn’t look feminine, per say, she looked like an entity of her own. Looking at her he felt the tension of the past few days fall off his shoulders. 

They would be travelling together, later, after everything ended. Maryden was working on a collection of songs she had written and was still writing about her time at the Inquisition. She had travelled across Orlais and Ferelden for a while, after the victory over Corypheus, but she had found her way home. That was when she had noticed Cole for the first time.

At that point he had been more human than anything for over a year, and was beginning to get used to it. Certain things he was able to do without forgetting them frequently, such as eating or bathing. Some things revealed themselves to him that he never thought had been hidden. Some things he lost, and mourned when he noticed they were gone. The most disturbing thing he had to learn and cope with was other people noticing him now. And - having opinions. 

About the way he carried himself, the way his voice sounded, his face, his body. It was deeply discomforting. And made him feel like he ought to take position to his own body, when before he never had had the need. What, after all, was his body ever other than a vessel to carry his mind and spirit around?

It made him anxious, the way people were judging him. Picking out flaws. And before he knew it, he was sneaking into Josephine’s quarters, for she had the largest looking glass, and examining himself. And he could see what people were finding appalling. 

His body was long, languid, awkward-looking. He was not built like Iron Bull had been, a mountain of a man who exuded security. Or like Blackwall, who looked like a literal wall. Broad and thick and ready to be leaned on. Or Dorian, who was not broad, but also strong and always looked polished to perfection.

His body gave him a certain speed in battle, though, his long arms and legs. How slim he was. Cole could make a half turn and evade an enemy’s blade in the fraction of a second. And because of his long arms he never had to be too close to make an effective strike. He could be out of danger quicker than a heartbeat. He loved that. 

A lot of people disliked looking at his face. Part of it was covered his hair, and they took offense to that. His eyes were set deep, in what almost looked like caverns. And his face was scarred, with broad pores, prone to discoloration. Together with his large, whooping hat and his carelessly assembled attire, plenty of people assumed he was unwashed, dirty, impure of heart and probably up to no good. 

With the latter ones they were mistaken, with the former ones - not always.

Varric had been of particular help in that area. He’d said: “Look, kid, now that you are permanently squatting in that body, might was well take good care of it. Agreed?” And then introduced him to the bathhouses in Skyhold. 

Dorian, later-on, had gifted him a scented oil. 

“I don’t think I ever congratulated you on your new-found humanity. How splendid! Now you will finally understand the joys to be had in this world. Here. A man is nothing if he doesn’t smell like one. I took the liberty of selecting a scent for you. It is quite odd, but I figured it would suit you. So that there is one more reason you’ll stay in people’s minds now. For any future… adventures, you may have. With girls. Or boys?” He’d looked at Cole imploringly, but didn’t find the hint he’d been searching for. “Whatever the case. Just don’t over-do it.”

Cole had discovered that he felt more comfortable in his body when he was clean. The scented oil Dorian had procured for him went unused more often than not. But for days that felt special, or days when he wanted to remember the Tevinter better, he popped open the lid and experimentally dabbed some of it on his wrists. It smelled nutty and musky, with a faint, near indetectable note of something sharp or spicy. It made Cole think of his daggers, laying in freshly upturned soil next to hazelnuts. He felt better about himself, and life, when he wore it.

He had been wearing it when Maryden talked to him for the first time. It was in _Herald’s Rest_ , when he had been watching her from a corner from under his wide-brimmed hat. He’d thought she hadn’t noticed him, but after her third set she’d come over to his table. 

“So,” she’d said. “Will you just be staring at me all night or are you planning on buying me a drink?”

Completely thrown off, Cole had been unable to say anything. Previously, he had been contemplating how to arrange for a conversation between the bard and The Iron Bull’s first in command, Krem. He could sense the two of them longing for somebody soft and loving, for somebody to take care of and somebody who would take care of them. 

But as he’d looked up into her slim, heavy-lidded eyes and and at her sweet freckles, he realized that for the first time in his life he wanted something for himself. Her attention, the approval on her face, that _pull_ she was feeling towards him, that Cole felt hard to resist…

Maryden was bright, Maryden was patient, Maryden was crystal-clear, Maryden was melancholic, Maryden was determined, Maryden was optimistic, Maryden was a force of nature. She was infinitely attractive to Cole, and he fell for her, hard, and without a second thought. 

It took him a long time to finally tell her his story, and in the meantime he listened to hers. Of pain and paralysis, of cruelty and of sparks of hope. She told him she didn’t know why she trusted him so instantaneously, so completely, when she had been hurt so badly before. And Cole held her and promised that nothing was more important to him than her happiness.

On the flipside, Maryden took care of him. When he slipped up with taking care of himself, when anxiety rattled his guts until he couldn’t sleep, when he felt restless at sensing all the people in need of help. She was a constant, like the moon, circling him and giving him stability. She was distraction when he needed it, comfort when he cramped up, songs when he felt like overflowing with emotions. 

Nothing was as important anymore, not even what people thought of him or his body. Maryden told him he was beautiful, and that was all he needed. 

Amaryll saw the the sky turn pink and then blue, saw the sun pass her windows, and then the sky turn pink and then dark. She saw that overall three more times before she started feeling something resembling herself again. 

She had left her tower twice since her outburst in the War Room. Once to get food, and another time to get books, which had been a useless enterprise. Reading comfortably was simply impossible, with only one hand. It had made her ill at ease, awkwardly positioning the book between her thighs and her stump, and angry at the fact that her attempt at escapism wouldn’t work. Not with the dreaded thing in her line of sight. And so the pile of books remained by her bed as if it wasn’t there at all.

The days before she started to truly recover, she had spent once again going over the events in her life, and Thedas. Trying to divine what might come next. The only breaks in her listless days were the people who came to visit, and the people who came to heal her. 

Leliana dropped by to give her news in person, and gently ask her how she was feeling. Once, she even brought a rose from the garden to put into a vase on her bedside table.

Cassandra pressed her lips together in discomfort when Amaryll pointed out that she wouldn’t be able to read the books that the warrior was lending her. But she did, after some serious convincing, submitted to the embarrassing ordeal of reading a chapter for her friend. The subsequent praise, dealt out in one of the Inquisitor’s most velvet voices, heated Cassandra’s ears and earned Amaryll a small scolding.

Rainier brought his friend another kind of news: those of the staff. He tried to avoid talking of those who would leave in the foreseeable future, and instead focused on arguments that were being had, plans that were being made, and humorous instances in the daily life of Skyhold’s people.

Cole came by twice as well to distract with similar things. He brought Maryden to sing for the Inquisitor, and they all shared ale and fruits on Amaryll’s bed. 

Josephine and Cullen, however, never crossed the threshold of her quarters.

At the very end of day ten a bright tone, like cutlery softly hit against glass, filled the dark chamber and caused Amaryll to immediately sit up straight in her bed. It was a sound that had hounded her in the depth of her madness, that she was so sure she had deluded herself into hearing. But there it was again, clear as a bell.

She turned her head to the left and listened intently when a glow caught her eye. The amulet Dorian had given her, laying on top of the pile of books on her bedside table, emitted a warm red glow. The tone repeated itself.

“Hello? Hello? Is this thing working? It better be, I paid good coin for it.”

Amaryll stared at the crystal in disbelief.

“Anybody there?”

Before her friend’s voice could disappear again she grabbed for the trinket. She didn’t know what exactly to do with it, so she just lowered the chain over her head and held he amulet in her hand, close to her lips.

“Dorian?” Amaryll finally replied.

“Aah,” she heard him say. “It’s about time, I was starting to wonder if I’d been had. But it works! Marvellous, isn’t it?”

The Inquisitor’s mouth opened and closed. 

"It is.” A pause, eyebrows drawing together, lips twisting down. “I’ve missed you.”

“I figured. Missed my velvety-smooth voice, did you? Well, here it is!” He paused, and Amaryll could tell there was more to come from him. “How are things?”

There were no words. Not yet. “You heard.”

“What? That you have been holed up since you came back to Skyhold? No, I had no idea.” Dorian gave her a chance to reply, but he dropped the cheerful air when she didn’t. “I’m sorry I can’t be there with you. I suspected this may be a difficult time. I am in the middle of the investigation to find out who killed my father, otherwise I might have been able to come down South and rattle you out of that low spell of yours. An alternative for you, of course, would be to use your privilege as the Inquisitor one last time.” His voice took on a mischievous quality. “Find yourself a nice, pretty servant to entertain you. If you have to be chained to bed, may it be with company. It’s been a while, after all.”

“I’ll be fine, Dorian. Thank you.”

“Or better yet, send Sera a letter and ask to join you. A warm body in your bed ought to do the trick. And I’m sure she’d have nothing against it, as a favor to a good _friend_. You two always did make a striking couple.”

“She has Dagna now, and you know that.” 

All the way in Minrathous, propped on a deep red chaise longue, Dorian could hear the hesitant smile in his friend’s voice. He had a lot of cause to be pleased with himself, and plenty of occasions, but some of his favorite were when he knew he got through to somebody. Few things were better. Knowing that he had found a point to tease and annoy and distract the Inquisitor, he decided to keep poking at it. 

Dorian clicked his tongue. “A shame, truly. Then maybe you could persuade Cassandra to show you her _devotion_ for you. You know, one last reckless thing to do before the Inquisition comes to an end.”

“The ground would split open and swallow us all before that happened. You’re absolutely impossible.”

“Impossibly handsome, devious and clever, to be sure. But you know that already.” His smugness subsided at little when he got no response to his quip. 

The Tevinter magister swung his legs off the chaise longue and adjusted his silken robes to properly cover them. He was alone in his quarters, but the open balcony doors allowed in a breeze that made his hairs stand up. Dorian transferred his communication crystal from his left to his right hand, and propped his elbow on the chair’s lean. 

“How are things going with the investigation?” he finally heard. She sounded so tired. 

“Oh, you know,” Dorian said in a conversational tone. “It’s all theories and _tracking_ just now. My father had plenty of people who wished him harm, especially after the change of heart he had, and the more liberal politics he pursued with his seat. But everybody knows that the struggle over influence in the Magisterium isn’t much more than a cockfight anyhow. Not as flashing or subtle as in Orlais, mind you, but nevertheless.” Now it was him struggling to find words. “I will find whoever did this. They won’t be able to hide for much longer. I know I’m close.”

“I hope you are. Make them pay.”

Dorian furrowed his brows. “My, my. Is the Inquisitor getting vengeful on her old days? Who would’ve thunk! Hide the women and children!”

Silence from the other end.

“I won’t be the Inquisitor for much longer. And one-armed as I am, I’m probably much less intimidating.”

“You know,” Dorian said evenly. “We _can_ talk about it.” Silence. “Or would you rather I entertain you with stories of _fantastical_ escapades I have witnessed in Minrathous?” Silence. “Are you there?”

“The Iron Bull.”

Dorian swallowed and wished he’d specified which topics he meant when he offered to talk. This was one he had not revisited often since the end of the Exalted Council. On his way back home, he had not been able to take his mind off it. Hurt had made his every breath heavy in his chest. _Kadan_. Oh, what a masterpiece of acting the man had delivered. Dorian’s stomach still turned thinking about it. 

_Amatus_. He’d never used the term of endearment with anybody else, not in all seriousness as he had with Bull. Sneaking around Skyhold, stolen moments away from the party camp, rooms in run-down taverns, all those memories. Whether he had wanted it or not in the beginning, Dorian hadn’t been able to help himself. All of his adult life, he had felt this pull towards and the simultaneous repulsion by the possibility of a true attachment to one of his lovers. A craving for a relationship, with all it’s fantastical aspects and it’s mundane ones. To Dorian, the mundane ones would have been the revolutionary part. Because in Tevinter, true intimacy between men did not happen. Magical, passionate moments, yes. But no day-to-day loves. 

The man had reminded him to bring his handkerchief for his allergies, Maker Almighty. 

During his journey back, he had attempted to dissect every aspect of that relationship, trying to determine what parts were real and which ones were not. In the desperate hopes that some of it _must have been real_. It must have. Soon, however, he felt himself forced to give up. He couldn’t tell. And that was the part that hurt the most. He would never get the closure he needed. What he had cautiously regarded as the first big, stable love of his life turned out to be a hoax. Or a mindless, stringless distraction from a bigger picture. Much like all of Dorian’s previous affairs. Meaning that he had never made the big strides towards personal happiness that he foolishly thought he did. He was where he had started. What a disheartening thought.

“Ah, well,” Dorian said hoarsely and cleared his throat. “How does Varric put it? Can’t win ‘em all.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. Serves me right for having feelings.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

“It’s _not_ .” He was a little surprised at the sudden stubbornness in her voice, and listened closer. “You deserve better.” Another blighted pause. Couldn’t the woman speak more than two consecutive sentences without interrupting herself? “If you feel lonely, I could send Rainier up there to visit you and show you his _swordsmanship_. You know, one last reckless thing to do before the Inquisition comes to an end.”

Dorian burst into roaring laughter, throwing his upper body backwards to meet the back of the chair that did not exist. He lost balance, but thankfully recovered it with a loud exclamation and curse before he could slip off the smooth chaise longue and hit his head on the marble floor. 

“The satin almost did me in,” he laughed. 

“What happened?”

“As I said, the satin I’m sitting on almost killed me. I won’t tell you how, because I know you’d just hold it over my head until the end of my days. And I really should do what I can to preserve my dignity, being a full-fleshed Magister and all. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Another blasted pause. Then, mockingly: “ _Satin_.”

He could almost hear her shake her head, but everything stayed quiet on the other end. And so he kept quiet, too, enjoying the company.

A wave of affection washed over him. The silence now was a comfortable one. One they shared often when spending time together. Dorian stared out his balcony door, where he saw the last light of the day softly bounce off the harbor’s water. He was grateful to be back in a warmer climate with a more even landscape; the light unobstructed by mountains. The day was a few delicious minutes longer than it was at Skyhold. 

A knock on the door interrupted the peace.

“Oh, there they are.”

“Who?”

“I have a dinner engagement with a few mighty influential and probably utterly boring people. Since you didn’t deign to answer my calls for you in over a week I had little hope you would this time.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Wouldn’t want to keep you from your evening of boredom.”

“I could cancel, if you wanted. Truly, you’d probably be doing me a favor.”

“No, go ahead and have dinner. I’ll be fine.”

This time, Dorian believed her. 

“Alright,” he said warmly. “If you find yourself in need of some more distraction, don’t hesitate to call on me. I’ll keep the crystal close.”

“Thank you. The same goes for you.” 

He waited a moment, to see if she would say anything else.

“I love you. Take good care of yourself, alright?”

“Only if you do the same,” he replied. “Oh, and Lavellan?”

“Yes?”

“Do try to climb out of your hole sometime soon, yes? The world if full of wonder and opportunities. Don’t let them pass you by for too long. And don’t risk missing your last days with the Inquisition over some heartache. You’ll regret it later if you do. You’re not alone, and you still have friends who care for you. It’s selfish to let them worry about you for longer than is absolutely necessary.”

The Inquisitor took some time to answer, to the point when Dorian was almost about to break the spell because he was sure she wouldn’t anymore.

“I will,” she promised quietly.

“Good girl. I love you, too, by the way. Don’t advertise that fact, though, yes? We wouldn’t want to rob anyone of _The Tale of The Evil Tevinter Magister And How He Manipulated The Herald of Andraste_. Where else would the poor people get their entertainment from? Alright, I’ll have to run now. Talk to you soon, Inquisitor!”

“Talk to you soon, Dorian. Take care.”


	7. Merrill I

Merrill noticed the way Hawke walked as soon as they left their meeting point in front of the Hanged Man and went off towards the alienage. Where there was usually a slight sway to her hips, it now made the impression on Merrill as though the human was trying to move her midsection as little as possible. There was a sense of… stiffness radiating off the other woman that she found concerning. Based on the subtle yet unmistakable scent of blood she picked up from Hawke, Merrill had simply assumed that she was going through her monthly bleeding. But the way she walked, as if to avoid her thighs coming too close...

“Are you feeling alright, Hawke?” She asked as discreetly as she could once she fell into step with her friend. 

Hawke smiled back at her, with that particular Hawke-smile. It was a kind smile with a bit of a spark in her blue eyes, the corners of her lips tugged upwards in the gentlest of ways. The first time Marian Hawke had smiled at her like that, Merrill had felt like she was being met as an equal. Taken seriously as a person, as an adult, perhaps a friend. 

“You’re sweet for asking, Merrill. I’m fine.”

“It’s just… your walk is a little funny tonight.” Merrill took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. But we are friends, and friends are concerned about friends-"

“Just cramps, you know how it is,” Hawke said, putting a hand on Merrill’s arm. "I’m bleeding a bit more than usually. It’ll be better soon, I promise."

“What are you people in the front talking about?” Varric asked.

“Oh, death and destruction, the usual,” Hawke retorted, throwing back a grin. Then added, for Aveline’s benefit, with feigned innocence: “And how to properly uphold the law, of course!”

The Captain of the Guard scoffed.

It was one of those tense nights in Kirkwall. The sun had been unrelenting during the day, to the point where even a good portion of merchants had closed shop just before midday and never reopened. A few of the elves who had recently gotten permits by Varric’s decree to sell their wares outside of the Alienage had shown more endurance than their human and dwarven counterparts, but even they had eventually relented. Merrill imagined that the guards assigned to the elven merchants had to have been grateful to get out of the sun. It felt like every breath taken put a strain on the dry air in Kirkwall. Even after the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon its thick heat could still be felt between the shadows of Lowtown's houses.

Merrill felt parched, even though she had had ale only a few minutes ago. She never fell out of step with the others as she lifted the flask Isabela had gifted her years ago, unscrewed the lid and took a drink. At this rate the water wouldn’t last long, but she’d worry about it when she got to it.

The group moved quietly through the streets of Lowtown, towards the Alienage. The way there was familiar to all of them, though for different reasons. It still delighted Merrill that her and Hawke had at one point been quasi neighbours, though those times were long past.

“Alright,” Varric said when they were approaching the Alienage’s border. “Let’s catch this asshole quickly. I’ve got work tomorrow and need my solid ten hours of sleep.”

“Bran won’t be happy about you being late again-“ Aveline started, but was interrupted by Hawke.

“What? Are you saying you can’t just stay out all night like we used to, old man?”

“That’s still Old Viscount to you, Champion. Andraste’s ass, it’s too damn hot.”

“We are getting older, aren’t we?” Aveline sighed.

“But that’s all right”, Merrill said. If everybody plunged into melancholy now, there might not be much use to the investigation. "Everybody is ageing, all the time. So long as we’re still alive.”

“That we are,” Hawke confirmed, somewhat wistful, and that was the end of that conversation. 

Eventually they stood at the center of the Alienage and the Champion turned to Merrill and Aveline. 

“Right,” she said. “You said the last victim was attacked somewhere around here.”

“He was found between those two market stalls in the morning,” Merrill corrected. “We don’t know where Darien was attacked or killed. But he was left over there.” 

She pointed to the right, and Hawke nodded solemnly and gestured for the elf to lead the way. Merrill strode past her and caught a scent from Hawke that she associated with fresh blood on white-petaled flowers. A botanical remedy had been used on her, recently, one that was vaguely familiar to the blood-mage but she couldn’t put her finger on just yet. 

Regardless, it didn’t matter. She did her best to call Darien’s frozen face into her mind, the way he had looked when he was alive and the way he had looked after he’d been found.

“We searched the area thoroughly after Darien- after he was removed,” she explained to her friends, and her gaze slid to Hawke. “But perhaps a fresh set of eyes...” 

Hawke’s smile in response to her hopefulness was not short of any of its kindness, though it also carried a note of weariness that made Merrill a little nervous. She wondered if she was putting to much pressure on the other woman, or if maybe she had said something wrong. If she had, then Hawke didn’t show any obvious signs of being upset; the mage simply conjured a light to illuminate the darkened corner of the Alienage to aid them in their search for clues.

“We’ll do all we can, Merrill,” was Aveline’s response, and she followed Hawke’s lead in starting to look behind the stalls. 

As they were searching, the Guard Captain gave context to the Darien’s injuries and cause of death as per the healer who had examined him post-mortem. The middle-aged elf had been found with severe bruising to his ribcage, hips and left shin. It was clear that his attacker had been able to come quite close to him and overwhelm the elf with sheer force. The kick to the shin, Aveline speculated, was likely to get the other man to topple over. A big, blotched bruise on Darien’s shoulder indicated that as a second step, the attacker had dealt a blow there to definitively get the victim onto the ground. Darien ended up succumbing internal bleeding, according to the healer who performed the autopsy. 

“I don’t know about you, but it sounds like a human attacker to me,” Varric said. “Nasty piece of work, too.”

“We don’t know that he’s human,” Aveline countered.

“But we know that he’s a he? Coulda been a woman, too, you know.”

“I know, I know-”

“Quiet,” Hawke interrupted.

She had been crouching behind the stall, but now straightened with a piece of paper in her hand. Varric, who had mostly been examining the ground in the front of the sales area, readied Bianca. Aveline pulled the shield she carried over her back and drew her sword with a sharp metallic sound. Merrill moved to the left into the corner that was untouched by the mage’s light. 

“Who’s there?” Hawke called. 

A rustling, footsteps that could not be entirely silenced. The elven bloodmage reached her mind beneath the ground, feeling for roots and the scrap of nature that Kirkwall provided. After all those years, after all the time she honed her powers as a bloodmage, she was still trained as a Keeper’s First before all. 

“Creepin’ around, aren’t we?” a raspy voice asked, accompanied by a middle-aged human who stepped off the staircase and closer to the edge of the lit area. Behind him, a half dozen others appeared. “Lookin’ for goods those knife-ears left behind, aren’t we?”

Merrill bristled, and felt Aveline tense like a bowstring. 

“No,” Hawke called from behind the empty market stall. “We are looking into the person who keeps attacking people of the Alienage in the dead of night. I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Who are ya? Guards?”

“I’m the Champion of Kirkwall. With me are the Captain of the Guard, the Viscount, and one of the leaders of this Alienage.”

A moment’s silence was followed by roaring laughter from the small gang.

“I don’t think they bought that, Hawke,” Varric commented. “Should I start shooting them or is that unseemly for a man in my position?”

“I think the rule is you have to wait for them to attack first,” Merrill said, helpfully.

“Ah, thanks, Daisy.”

“You’re quite welcome, Varric.”

The group, in the meantime, slowly regained their composure.

“Pleased ta meet ya, Champion, Viscount, and Captain,” their leader said, wiping tears from his eyes. “I’m Empress Celene, jus’ passin’ through, ya see.”

Hawke didn’t let herself be teased. She may not have been wearing her Champion’s armor for the sake of anonymity, but she wore her Champion strength and confidence.

“I’ll ask again, nicely,” she said in a tone that was impressively calm and reverberated. “And afterwards I’ll beat the answer out of you, not so nicely.” Hawke paused. “So I suggest you reply right away and then leave. Do you, or do you not know anything about the recent assaults on elves at the edges of the Alienage?”

It might’ve just been Merrill’s imagination, but she thought she could feel the atmosphere change a little. Aveline’s stance relaxed a tiny bit as their opponents traded uncertain looks at Hawke’s authoritative tone. Except for the leader. Perhaps he still didn’t believe himself at a disadvantage, perhaps he didn’t want to lose face in front of his subordinates. But he took a deep breath, gargled, and then spit on the ground. A very clear comment on what he thought of the ultimatum presented before him. 

“I’m gettin’ quite tired of yer big mouth, lass,” he said, drawing his daggers.

If Hawke was anything, then she was a woman of her word. And she was done wasting them. Without losing any time, she conjured the Fist of the Maker, slamming all seven of the thugs into the ground by incredible force.

“Merrill,” she called out just as Aveline let out a taunting cry, and the blood-mage knew what her friend was asking for; the routine was ages old, precious as silverite, and reserved for people who were not worth killing.

Calling onto the roots of the vhenadal that she had sought out earlier, she used her connection to the tree to have them rip out of the ground where the thugs lay and fasten them to the dirt. Incoherent yelling ensued, but as long as they were yelling, they were well. 

“So, what now, Hawke?” Aveline asked.

The Champion, however, did not answer. She walked between Varric and Aveline towards the group’s leader, putting the blunt end of her staff on his chest, and bent down. The curls that jumped from her tied hair sprung around and covered her face, but Merrill could picture her friend’s expression simply by the way she stood and talked.

“I’ll not ask again,” she said sternly. “Answer my question or pay with your freedom for the night. Over there is the Guard Captain. If you can provide us with any help to find the culprit we’re looking for, we’ll let you go tonight. If you keep information from us, you’ll be taken and tried by the City Guard. Your choice.”

“We don’t know anything,” wheezed a woman.

“Nothing,” the leader confirmed, his voice now sounding less raspy and more strained.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Too bad,” Hawke said regretfully, rose to her full height, then stepped away. 

Merrill took that as her queue to unhand their opponents. The vhenadahl’s roots buried themselves back into the disturbed soil, where they found their original position. This would leave the sacred tree a little vulnerable, since lots of small branches of roots had been torn away from the thicker ones that Merrill used. But Creators willing, with a little care, it would continue to be healthy.

“Now come on,” Hawke continued as the group slowly got up. “Up to Hightown we go. And I advise against starting anything. We have a bloodmage in our midst, and unless you _really_ want to find out what it’s like to have your body turned against you, I suggest you come with us peacefully.”

After an hour and a half of walking, and unfortunately not meeting a single set of guards onto which to stave off the petty criminals, the group arrived at the Viscount’s Keep. Aveline already went on to thank Hawke and bid her as well as Merrill good-bye, when Hawke pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket. It was the one she’d found behind the market stall, an unremarkable thing that nobody else had bothered to pick up. Either because its sight was all too common, or deliberately tried to be forgotten. 

It turned out to be a pamphlet that Hawke passed around to get her friends’ perspectives on it.

“I say it’s the same hateful drivel as they printed after we came to Kirkwall,” Aveline said, nose wrinkled.

“Only it’s directed at elves, and distributed right where we live,” Merrill added.

“So? Same song, different tune.”

Varric started scratching his chin the way he usually did when he was thinking.

“More like same song, same tune, different lyrics.”

“If you say so.”

“There’s something off about this,” he said as he continued to scratch furiously. 

“What is it?” Hawke asked.

Varric took a moment to think.

The group of thugs, in the meantime, had decided to make a run for it while their captors were distracted. Only they hadn’t made the bet with the dwarven rogue. Perceptive as he was, and quick, he twirled around on the spot and aimed Bianca within the blink of an eye. Screams pierced the dense night as one of the criminals fell to the ground and the rest froze where they were. The arrow had swished over the man's head, but had been close enough to put him in a panic.

“Didn’t we tell you not to try anything?” Aveline barked at them. “Come back here. Stop making those faces, none of you were hit." 

“Andraste’s ass,” Varric said, grabbing for the pamphlet that now Merrill was holding. “Let me read this again, hang on… I think I know who we can talk to next.”

  
  
  


Thom was looking down at the bear he’d just finished carving and wondered what the point was. He started carving toys from a young age because he had never had many to begin with. His father had taught him, and from then on young Thom had a creative outlet that kept him out of trouble, somewhat popular with the village’s other kids, and gave him all the toys he could possibly need.

On his travels he had always distributed the wooden horses, birds, cats, dogs, cows, and sheep among the children he met. And he continued that practice in Skyhold. But with all the elves gone, a good chunk of the hold’s kids had left as well. 

Thom realized that he somehow had never paid a lot of attention to the elves working or training or simply living here, and he wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Should he have been more attentive? Did it speak of ignorance or even malice that he didn’t pay attention to who was an elf or not? He could imagine Sera’s answer.

“Start treating me like an elf and I’ll put earwigs in your beard at night!”

He could also imagine Solas’ reply, maybe.

“Being mindful of your neighbor’s background does not necessitate treating them with more or less respect. Just as a human’s status in society should not affect their rights, neither should an elf be treated worse for the shape of his ears.”

At any rate, neither of them were here to discuss it with him. And maybe that was for the best. Though he missed the spunky little blonde elf, he had to admit. Drinking in the tavern by himself was not half as fun without his usual company from back in the day. Sera, Iron Bull, Dorian, and occasionally the Inquisitor. Varric would join, too, on evenings when he wasn't busy. Those were fun times. 

Thom drummed his fingers on the workbench in front of him. Carved toys of varying sizes were set up in a row, all of them finished. Well, a coat of paint couldn’t hurt. But that he generally didn’t bother with. Little buggers put all kinds of things in their mouths, the younger ones did, at least. Paint really shouldn’t be added to that list. He asked himself what to do with all of them now.

Not only were the elven children gone, a portion of the human ones had left, too, along with their parents. Soldiers and their happy new families, found here after defeating Corypheus. Merchants who had brought their spouses and children. Nobles who dragged their nieces and nephews to Skyhold to make connections. 

The hold was not going to be a hub of political of financial influence for much longer, and the soldiers were officially released from their duties. Many saw this as the time to go, and Thom didn’t blame them. Skyhold didn’t feel as much like home anymore, and few wanted to see it completely dismantled. Rather leave with the good memories in your heart rather than see a project you poured your heart into broken down into pieces and dissolved.

And so Thom sat on a good dozen toys that he wasn’t sure who to give to. A flash of a thought crossed his mind. He could paint them after all, and give them to people whose side he fought along. As a goodbye gift, so to speak. But then again he thought it may come across as aloof, and the discarded the idea. Sera might appreciate that, maybe even the Inquisitor. But Dorian might mock it to his Tevinter magister friends, sending one to Divine Victoria was unthinkable, and Cullen and Cassandra would probably not even know what to do with them. 

Maybe he could sell them to one of the remaining merchants, and that way they’d come into good hands. Lugging them around when he was going to start travelling in a few weeks seemed a bit bothersome, especially because he would want to create new ones. So trying to sell them might be the best idea, even though he had never done that before. 

Looking down on the toys and the joy he had imagined on the children's’ faces when he would hand them out, his stomach twisted a bit. The thought to sell them didn’t sit quite right with him, after all.

“Rainier,” a voice interrupted his contemplation.

To his surprise, it was Lady Lavellan standing in the entrance to the barn with an unreadable expression. 

“Inquisitor.” His rumbling greeting travelled the distance between them.

“I need help,” she said without much prelude. Only when she lifted it did Thom see that she was holding a wooden sword. A crooked smile stretched across her face. “Do you have some time for me?”


	8. Cassandra I

“Mercy, mercy!” Lavellan cried out. She swayed in a half circle and let the training sword slip through her fingers. “Mercy!”

Cassandra struck hers tip first into the dusty gravel and planted her hands firmly on her hips. She’d broken into sweat, though that had little to do with the sparring. The tempered rays of sunshine hitting the yard were surprisingly warm today. 

“Your flair for the dramatic is near unparalleled, friend,” she said matter-of-factly.

“You’re telling me?” replied Lavellan as she leaned her back against the wall and let gravity slide her down onto her bottom, legs extended like a child. A patch of soft grass and dirt greeted her buttocks. “How’s that new chapter of _Swords & Shields _?”

“Magnificently terrible and terribly magnificent.” Cassandra was unimpressed by the verbal riposte, just as she had been by the Inquisitor’s earlier actual riposte. “But that is not the point.”

“What is, then?”

“That crying _mercy, mercy_ won’t serve to improve your guard or your defense in battle.”

“You stopped hitting me, so I think it worked just fine.”

Cassandra pushed out an expressive huff that left no doubt as to what she thought of that technique. Then she took a few steps towards her friend.

“You really ought to be standing up, Inquisitor,” she contended. Her voice gained an empathetic note. “It is better for your muscles. Walk around slowly for a little while, so they won’t cool out too fast.”

A look of pained resistance thrown her way, but in the end the elf heeded her advice. She pushed herself up without complaint and made a few unmotivated steps.

“Now,” Cassandra began. “Onto my observations-” 

Lavellan somewhat copied her tutor’s stance. Though she was slightly leaning forward as if she needed the hand on her hip to support her weight rather than to look energetic, as was the case with Cassandra. 

“I saw you flinching before I dealt you the blow to your right upper arm,” she continued. Paused when she saw the annoyed expression on the student’s face. 

“I’m sorry.” The elf regained control over her mimik. “I’m frustrated with myself, not you. I know I’m supposed to look steady.”

“By flinching you told me where to hit you before I even struck you,” Cassandra insisted. 

She watched her friend’s face harden.

_They were stomping through the narrow space between the rocks, on their way to Small Grove Camp._

**_“_ ** _I'm surprised you don't wear heavier armor on your blind side,” Blackwall said, directed at Iron Bull._

 ** _“_** _If I did that, I'd just be telling people where to hit me. As it is, every half-decent fighter sees the eye and thinks he can feint,_ _t_ _hen comes in with a low stab. Then I chop his head off. It's like a gimme.” He wasn’t grinning, but when Amaryll looked back she saw a certain satisfaction. Returning her glance, he winked with his good eye._

 _Blackwall harrumped._ **_“_** _That_ can't _work every time.”_

 **_“_ ** _It doesn't. But taking a blade to the ribs is a pretty good teacher.”_

_“Well then, Bull, maybe we should get you a second eye patch,” Amaryll grinned. “They’ll never see it coming that way.”_

_“Good one, boss,” Iron Bull replied in a tone that suggested that it was Not A Good One._

Before Cassandra could snap her out of it, Lavellan turned away and went to pick up her practice sword.

“I’m ready to go again. What else do I have to work on?”

“Well-” For a moment the seeker contemplated asking after her friend’s change in attitude, but then decided against it. “Your stance is solid. You’re strong in your arms and shoulders, and you can hold that strength for a short amount of time. You are, however, used to releasing it all with an arrow on a bow. You need to learn to keep holding it inside you, and only let it out in bursts that don’t deplete it all.”

Lavellan nodded impatiently.

“Your biggest enemy is your impulse to divert your enemy’s attention and turn into thin air. It has served you well when fighting from a distance, but is unfitting to what we are trying to accomplish here. You know that, I think. It may sound strange, but you need to get used to danger up-close.”

The elf shot her a mischievous look. Chin tilted low, a faint smile, eyes fixed on her and the lower lids squinted just a little bit, eyebrows drawn in.

“Why else d’you think I’m training with you of all people?”

Cassandra didn’t know how to respond to that, and so she didn’t. Instead she lifted her gaze to the sky and saw it grow lighter, more transparent.

“We have been here awhile,” she said. “Best we’d get some rest and pick it up tomorrow.”

The Inquisitor nodded. She crossed the distance between herself and Cassandra’s practice sword, pulled it out of the ground and made her way to the armory, with her own sword pressed against her chest using the left arm.

Time in Skyhold passed in such an odd tempo, Cassandra recognized. Some hours or a day felt eternal, like pearls on a never-ending string. And then some days she could not even remember, looking back. Logically she knew she must have done something noteworthy, if only writing letters to supporters of the Seekers, or trying to find a good spot in Thedas to rebuild them. But for the life of her, she could not remember what she had done that day. And just like that, almost a third of their time left in Skyhold had gone by.

It would be given over to the Chantry, that is what had been decided. Set technically on Ferelden land, but quite perfectly in the middle between King Alistair’s and Queen Celene’s kingdoms, it would be a splendid connecting spot between the countries who had been set against each other for so long. Moreover, it would likely be a place of worship. Home of the blessed Inquisition, and of the Herald of Andraste, it was bound to be a place of pilgrimage. Especially after Divine Victoria took it under her wing.

As much as she sometimes disagreed with her Divine’s policies, Cassandra still respected her and was glad that Skyhold should fall to her and become a holy place. It deserved to not be forgotten this time. Too much had happened here.

Lavellan stepped out into the fading light. “Care to join me in the tavern?”

“Gladly, my friend.”

She nodded, and led the way.

 _Herald’s Rest_ was mostly empty at this hour, not even the bard was there. But Cabot was still here, and happy enough to prepare the two women dinner. They sat in silence for a while, just resting until the food came. Cassandra leaned back against the wall and almost nodded off. Lavellan had her chin placed on her right hand, with her elbow on the table, her eyes glazed over.

Both of them jerked back to reality when Cabot placed steaming bowls of mutton stew in front of them, along with some sour-dough bread and red ale. Without wasting time they dug in. The meat was falling apart after having been reheated so often, but it was still tasty.

Every now and then Cassandra lifted her gaze to look at Lavellan. She was attentive enough during the sparring, somewhat approaching the spirit she had before the Winter Palace. The challenge awakened something in her, Cassandra could tell. After almost a week of barely moving, training must have been a relief.

Ever since the training she herself underwent with the Seekers, there was not a day during which Cassandra had neglected practice. Maybe one or two where she had been unconscious from sickness or recovery, but those she didn’t count. Any day that she had been able to hold a sword she had used to maintain her skills, honing her body until she knew it inside and out.

She had fought along the Inquisitor’s side often enough to know her style, too. And she could tell that the neglect of the past week had done some damage. Her body let her down every now and then. Whether it happened that she was not quick enough to lift the sword and block a blow, or that a side-step didn’t work. And getting accustomed to a new weapon and a completely different fighting style didn’t help. Cassandra had seen the look of surprise and betrayal and shock displayed on her face when things didn’t work out the way she’d wanted them to during fighting. She pitied her, but she was also determined to get her friend to prime shape again.

There were setbacks, however. Using a shield was not an option. With no spare hand to hold onto the straps, it was more of a hindrance than anything else. It slipped off her arm if not positioned right, and too much focus and strength were put into keeping angled just right instead of maintaining a sensible defense or guard. Lavellan had been particularly upset at that, or at least that was what Rainier had told her in confidence.

And the flinching and evasion, of course. Cassandra had never noticed whether or not she did that in battle, too, but in any case she was doing it now. The warrior knew of course that resilience was an ability to be learned like any other.

At least she didn’t try to avoid every blow by instinctively jumping away from and twirling around the tip of the enemy’s blade. That was something Rainier had complained to her about extensively. “It’s like trying to strike at wind. Rather than using her sword to defend herself, she jumps out of the way every time.” She was not made for this style of fighting, that much was certain. But she seemed determined nevertheless to not be without weapons, even if she couldn’t use the one her heart was beating for.

Cassandra circled the spoon in the stew, thinking. Finally she brought herself to break the silence.

“I have been wondering about something.”

Lavellan looked up, her eyes wide with interest.

“You are a rogue. It is clear that sword fighting does not come naturally to you. Why did you not ask Cole to teach you first? A dagger would be simpler to control for you than a sword, and it would suit your style better. Even if it is only one, instead of two.”

“Swordfighting is a very useful skill,” she replied after a heartbeat’s hesitation. “I like a challenge. I am picking up some very good pointers from you.”

Cassandra looked at her skeptically, and saw her squirm.

“I do not appreciate being lied to, I thought you knew this.”

“I’m not lying,” lied the Inquisitor, shaking her head a little.

She held the warrior’s gaze; and to somebody who knew her less, Lavellan might not have betrayed so much. Seeing that her friend was not convinced, she turned her attention back on the stew, pretending it never happened.

“I need to be able to take a hit, don’t I?” Lavellan said harshly when she noticed that Cassandra was still staring at her. “That’s what Rainier and you are teaching me.”

“I’ve seen you jump down impossible cliffs and walls and mountains with minimal regard to your safety. And now you are wanting to learn how to take a hit?”

Lavellan smiled, tilting her head at the slightly reproachful tone.

It was true. The elf had little patience for safe ways and gravel paths. When there was a set of stairs, she was sure to leap down at least half a flight to avoid walking the individual stairs. If she wasn’t jumping over the railing, that was. “It’s boring,” had been the woman’s only explanation

The seeker stared at her, until Lavellan directed her mischievous look to her dinner. Then she contemplated something. And was pleased to stumble on a reasonable idea.

“This is not about weapons at all, is it?” she said triumphantly. “You don’t want Cole poking around in your head.”

Lavellan’s eyelids snapped apart and she stared back at her friend. If she had expected tact from Seeker Pentaghast, she had clearly miscalculated. Looking at her in a deliberately unresponsive manner was, Cassandra guessed, supposed to show her that she was treading close to a line that the other woman did not wish crossed. Cassandra was very much willing to respect and indulge a friend’s desire for privacy, for them to sort things out on their own. But there was also a limit. Which was reached when said friend made every appearance of stilting their own progress.

Cassandra held the elf’s blank stare in a levelled manner. Herald or no, she was not going to get bashful at having spoken the truth.

After a few seconds Lavellan turned her face a bit to the side, She ripped a chunk of bread off the loaf, perhaps a bit too fiercely, and proceeded to dunk it into the stew. It was obvious that the topic was closed now.

“Don’t you think Cole could help you with whatever you are fighting?” the seeker insisted after a pause.

“Cassandra!”, Lavellan shouted, her palm slamming onto the table. Bowls shook and spilled a little. And the soggy piece of bread, flung across the table as she had let it go, hit Cassandra’s tankard, leaving a mess. A puddle grew quickly, catching up with the spilled drops on the table’s surface.

Without meaning to, the warrior had jerked. Less because of her dining companion’s sudden movement, but because of the tone of voice. Instant defensiveness and indignation rose in her - never before had the Inquisitor raised her voice at her. And especially not for something that Cassandra perceived as just an empathetic conversation between friends.

She was about to raise her voice in return, when she saw Lavellan hectically look around the tavern. Checking if Cole had heard them. That was what gave Cassandra the resolve and patience to swallow her approaching rage. Deliberately composed, though maybe a tad cool, she continued:

“If you are hesitant to call on his help, you know I am discreet.”

“Frankly,” Lavellan spat, her full attention now back on her friend, “and no offense - but you are the last person I would ask for advice on this matter. You, Leliana and Cullen.”

“Are you-”

Cassandra took a breath and held it. She had learned long ago that giving into one’s temper usually yielded negative results, if any. Emotionally, there were only two choices she saw in that instant: hurl her tankard against Lavellan’s head, or have her own head explode. And oh, was she tempted to act on the first one.

“Although,” Lavellan continued, more to herself that to her dining companion, and seemingly unaware of the imminent danger to her skull, “that’s not quite true, I guess. I suppose the last person I’d go to for help would be the Divine. But that may go without saying.”

The seeker’s first emotion was repulsion by the discarding tone. To talk that way about Divine Victoria was inches short of blasphemy. But a common denominator revealed itself.

Lavellan shoved her half-finishes bowl of food away from her and reached for the ale.

“Is it because we are Andrastian?” Cassandra asked as she was working on containing her rage. And failing. “Are you suggesting Cullen, Leliana and I would be without compassion for your situation because _we do not share your faith_?”

Lavellan met her eye, then took a long gulp. She sat her tankard down, started circling the rim with her index finger.

“Yes.”

The offhanded delivery made that simple reply all the more hurtful to Cassandra, and for a short moment she knew not what to do with herself. But Lavellan kept talking before the other woman could comment.

“I have been around you all for three years. I have been surrounded by the Chantry whichever way I turned, and I learned. I read the Chant of Light. I spoke about religion with you, Leliana, Dorian and Cullen, even Sera. Other people, too. Did more reading. Talked to clerics. I didn’t believe, but I wanted to understand. It was crucial, people said, that I understood.

“I can say that I have seen the best and the worst of humans, sometimes even both united in one person. Before I started living among you, and after.

“And as much as I love you all, and as aware as I am that you would try to empathize and help-” Lavellan’s casual demeanor stumbled over what she was about to say next, “- I fail to believe that none of you would rejoice at least a little bit in the fall of Dalish Faith. And I cannot bear to see that in your eyes. It would be too cruel.”

Cassandra hushed her anger. A muted part of her still resented the implication that she would not be able to help herself but to emotionally exploit a friend’s crisis of faith to strengthen her own. But another, selfish part felt guilty for also not being able to fully exclude the possibility.

“I cannot imagine what this must be like for you,” she said, calmer now. “I am sorry, my friend.”

The last remnants of her sneering attitude from before twitched around the seams of Lavellan’s lips before disappearing entirely.

“Thank you.”

“But you should not cast yourself in the role of the victim. And then make your friends out to be villains. All this will accomplish is to keep you from taking action. Where is your drive? Where is your anger?”

“The person I could be angry at has crippled me, destroyed the faith of my ancestors, and frayed my connection to my people. I’m not an idiot. I know when I’ve lost a round.”

“Solas.”

In the beginning, shortly after the explosion at the conclave, Cassandra had suspected that the elf was up to something. But so she had of everybody else who had survived, including the future Inquisitor. Mad with an inconsolable rage, she had not cared who was responsible as long as she could thrust the consequences on somebody. During the year that followed, she had not once considered that the culprit was walking next to her through forests, sand- and ice deserts.

She was disgusted at the thought that she had become friends with the person whose actions led to the murder of her beloved Divine. That she’d praised his help in the face of the fragile political situation.

On the other hand, he did help in establishing the Inquisition. He fought rogue templars and rabid apostates, deluded Grey Wardens and Venatori. He gave knowledge, time, effort and blood, and he pointed out Skyhold when Haven was naught but ashes among snow.

Cassandra would perhaps have been more understanding of Solas’ goal and actions, were it not for the spies. And how eerily empty Skyhold was without them. His spies, and the Qunari ones.

That last factor had Cassandra reeling. Not so much immediately after the events at the Winter Palace. But more so after returning home… to a near-wiped out fortress. Usually, when a larger and important delegation returned to Skyhold, a good number of people welcomed them home. Because of the excitement, but also to hug and kiss anyone who had been gone and missed. After the Exalted Council, however… there were so few.

And Cassandra had felt bile rise up in her. Only then did she recognize the taint that the double-betrayal had left on the previous three years. The Maker worked in mysterious ways, it was said. And there were always people jealous and weary of those who followed His word and tried to do right by His name. But to have had vipers among them from the very beginning?

Now, Cassandra couldn’t help but think of how very convenient it had been to have a rift mage there right after the explosion at the conclave.

“ _Whatever caused the Breach is connected to your prisoner’s mark_ ,” she heard his firm voice say. “ _If we understand the mark, we may be able to close it_.”

“He’s left me with quite a mess on my hands,” Lavellan interrupted her thoughts. She seemed to consider something, then dismiss it. “I always meant to go back to my clan after the Exalted Council. And I really ought to…

“But you wonder how you will explain it all to them?” Cassandra interjected.

The elf stared down at the cold puddle of stew on the wooden surface, lost in thoughts. And Cassandra waited. Dinner was all but forgotten.

“How could I destroy what my people have desperately been compiling for hundreds of years?” she finally said. “How could I say to my parents that they have been telling my siblings and I the wrong stories? How do I explain to my Keeper that everything she has been taught and was teaching us is a lie? Who am I to disrupt and tear down our culture? Who would believe me?”

Cassandra knew the feeling. She saw her own dilemma with the Rite of Tranquility and the Seekers of Truth in her friend’s conflict.

Was it right to publicize information even if it would cause people pain? Or was it better to keep quiet and let people live with skeletons under their beds? When was it righteous, when was it selfish? Was truth an absolute entity with no grey areas? 

“They deserve the truth, Lavellan. Even if it is ugly, and even if they do not want to hear it. You have to do the right thing.”

The elf put her elbow on the table, rested her forehead on her hand. Cassandra gave her a moment before continuing.

“And besides, perhaps you are not giving your people enough credit. You left them years ago, but you never forgot about them. You made a name for yourself in the world, and you have used it to help them on numerous occasions. Things have occurred that nobody ever thought possible, and they know that.”

“So what?”

“So by denying them what you know, you are also denying them the opportunity to correct their mistakes. It may be terrifying, but it is necessary. Or will you give the courtesy of explaining history to Solas?”

Immediately Cassandra knew she’d struck a nerve. With a hammer.

Lavellan’s body cramped up, her nostrils flared wide, her eyes fixed rigidly on a point on the wall behind Cassandra. The warrior knew it when she saw it; pure, undamped fear. And that was when she remembered something that the Inquisitor had mentioned a minute earlier.

Lavellan still had family out there. Family that would without a doubt be entrenched in this war whether they wanted to be or not. Family that, if the Maker didn’t shield them, could just as easily stand with the annihilation of the world as they could against it.

Cassandra sent a quick prayer to Andraste that her hopeful suggestion earlier would turn out to be correct. That they would listen to reason when they heard it.

And that Lavellan would never, ever, have to stand in front of her loved ones with their blades turned against her. Not again.

Lavellan stopped leaning on her elbow; she straightened her back. Her face was paler, expression carved, lips pressed tight. And there it was.

The anger Cassandra had been asking after. Gleaming, and murderous.


	9. Amaryll I

Mornings were the hardest.

The Inquisitor spend a little trying to remember a time when she could wake up without feeling already exhausted. But in spite of her sore muscles, her heavy head, and the temptation to remain lying down she rose from her bed and got ready with the help of Mara. The Fereldan young handmaiden helped her clean up and dress; took great care when braiding her mistresses thin ashen hair, using a wet comb whenever single hairs rebelled against the mold. Amaryll, in the meantime, tried to not stare into the mirror that she sat in front of. 

After she was as presentable as could be, she released Mara from her duties for the rest of the day. 

The Inquisitor _meant_ to leave her quarters. She meant to leave the main hold and make her way to the mage tower to talk about their future outside the Inquisition. She meant to take a stack of letters to the medicinal garden and put her signature under every single one. She meant to meet with Rainier. She never made it past her door, however. What she did was stand in the middle of her room, slightly swaying for a minute or two. 

There was nothing she wanted as desperately in this moment as to collapse on the floor. Exhaustion overcame her stronger than before, and for a moment her vision shifted. The shadows behind the pieces of furniture in her quarters balled and grew red eyes, so many of them, teeth-

With a blink of an eye, everything was entirely ordinary again. Everything except for the painful drumming of blood in her body, and the feeling that she should perhaps take a seat for a while. She would have, if there had been the certainty that she would have been able to get up again of her own volition. But the way things were standing with her mind, it was a risk she could not take; she was scared of being bed-bound again.

Instead, she decided she would do well to distract herself until she was truly able to leave her quarters without imposing worry on those around her. 

Without another moment’s delay, the elf walked past her chaiselongue and desk to push one of the balcony doors open. A mess of bright chirps immediately filled the room, accompanied by a stiff morning breeze that left Amaryll shuddering. Nevertheless, she kept it open and turned to approach the bookshelves behind her desk. Her hand hovered over the different books and folders until she finally touched her fingers to one of the latter ones. With a swift, determined movement she pulled it out of the mold and propped it against her left lower arm, while still sending a habituary praise to the Creators for still having her right hand. Balancing the heavy thing on her left arm, she walked back to the middle of her room, where she lowered herself into a seat on the floor. Opening the folder, kept closed by tied strings, was no easy task, but the Inquisitor eventually prevailed. 

The picture that greeted her first was was a graphite sketch of a bird from different angles. It was the one who, upon arriving at Skyhold, had first accepted bribery in the form of nuts and seeds. Other finks had eventually recognized Amaryll as a source of food and followed their fearless peer in perching upon her balcony rails, singing for treats. It was them who were currently serenading each other outside, and Amaryll smiled, with her heart now calm and free from sorrow.

A deep breath drew slowly into her lungs, and left it even slower. Time stopped running, for once, and the Inquisitor lost herself in her artist’s vanity. Inspecting her work from over two years ago, the proportions, the colors, the technical details. Ferreting out which aspects she had improved on, which already had presented a strong foundation then. There were more birds from different areas of Ferelden and Orlais, herbs and flowers she had copied from books she’d been reading back then, practice sketches of fabrics and textures. 

A set of hands, drawn over and over again in different positions. If she looked at them intently she could tell that those were Sera’s hands. The memory of watching her friend at work on some quilt, on a beaded necklace, on darning yet another hole in her clothes, made Amaryll smile. For a brief moment an old ache in her chest rose to the surface but she touched her fingers to that particular spot on her neck and pushed the feeling back down where it belonged. 

The Inquisitor’s fingers moved to play with a strand of hair, inspecting the linework and shading on those hands. Then she lowered her hand to turn over the next paper and froze at what she found underneath.

There he was. Or rather his eye. Wizened and mature, full of life and humor and warmth. It held the expression he always shown when looking at Krem, or when Dorian complained about something that didn’t really bother him that much. When Sera drank all that ale while in a handstand and sputtered a good bit of it over the tavern’s floor. 

Amaryll quickly turned it over, as if it were nothing, but her racing heart marked her a dirty liar. 

Alright then. 

Just because bad memories weren’t immediately dragging her back into the pit didn’t mean that she wasn’t dancing on its edge. If she could go back and change _one_ thing…

No, thinking like that was useless.

Perhaps, if she had taken Bull up on the Qunari’s offer to work together, all this wouldn’t have happened. Or maybe it would have given them even broader access to the Inquisition and its sensitive information. Though Amaryll couldn’t fathom how anyone could have gotten more out of them than The Iron Bull had - or rather, Hissrad. _Liar_.

He had never lied, was the problem. Never, Amaryll had realized. He had always been clear on his primary allegiance. He was Ben-Hassrath first, Captain of the Chargers second, and friend of the Inquisition third. It wasn’t his fault that they all had forgotten that. It was Amaryll’s. 

It’d been a stroke of luck that she hadn’t taken him to the Darveraad. She had been so close to choosing him for her party. If she had, no doubt, she would be a corpse rotting in the Qunari stronghold in his stead.

They hadn’t even bothered going back to retrieve his corpse to give him a proper burial…

Only when tears started rolling down her cheeks did Amaryll realize that she’d grabbed hold of her left arm and squeezed into a blue-green bruise from yesterday’s practice. 

No.

No. 

No. 

She wasn’t doing this anymore. She had done it, similar things, when she was young. But years had passed and she had matured; she should have a better grip on herself.

Having regained some of her composure, Amaryll wiped the water off her face using her sleeve and began sorting the drawings in front of her knees by topic. Slowly a mosaic of captured moments formed before her eyes. Like hair fanned out on a pillow she arranged them, looking down with softness on her face.

Vivienne , Cassandra, Sera, Rainier, Dorian, Cole, Varric , Lace Harding, Josephine, Leliana, Cullen - 

The Iron Bull. The Dread Wolf. 

Amaryll’s breath caught. She tried with all her might to conjure the fury she’d felt yesterday, but it was difficult when the drawings in front of her spoke of nothing but love. And so the righteous anger never came. Instead, Amaryll once again felt so, so tired as another piece of the puzzle aligned itself with all she’d learned in the past few weeks. 

Solas’ rejection of her advances after their bold kiss in her dream now didn’t sting so much anymore. Less than the rejections she’d received from Cassandra, or Varric, or Rainier-

Creators, which of her friends had she not at one point been in love with, however briefly?

The drawings in front of her now seemed silly, embarrassingly so. But she couldn’t help it. 

There was nothing wrong with it, she told herself as mild guilt nipped at her. To find aspects to admire, to cherish, to worship, even, in most people that she met. People could be beautiful, inside and out. It couldn’t possibly be wrong to see that. 

It was the reason she had two rings on each of her ears; remnants from the time where she had burned brightly for Varric. His warm, gritty voice, his wit and his charm and his face and his hands. His stories and love for his friends. His insecurities and the depth of his care for the defenseless.

It was the reason there was a spot she touched whenever she felt happy or thought of Sera. An idle, heated night full of giggles and tight embraces left a big blooming love bite right on the tender skin under Amaryll’s ear. Whenever their eyes met over the next week, as it turned from purple and blue to green to yellow, the most beautiful, shameless grin spread over Sera’s bright face and Amaryll couldn’t have loved her more.

It was the reason Amaryll always wore a ring on her right index finger, and used to twirl it whenever she needed a good memory. The future Divine Victoria had always inspired ambition in Amaryll, her deep-seated yearning to be better than she was. The love that’d sparked for Vivienne **,** years ago on the Storm Coast when Amaryll gently requested help in her education and was met with nothing but kindness, was one that she still bore to this day. It was quieter now, calmer, one fitting to feel towards a mentor and dear friend. 

It was the reason she stopped experiencing sleep paralysis after the horrors of Haven’s destruction. After Solas brought her back there in her dream, she finally could sleep through the night without jerking awake. Without being terrified to lay down again. Without yearning, desperately so, for a warm body next to hers to prove she was alive. Even now, she wondered if Solas had kept watch over her and dispelled the things that took her back to the time she woke up alone and abandoned with broken bones in an icy cave. 

It was the reason there was a stack of books that Amaryll never returned to the library, even though it was selfish. Because a foolish part of her hoped that one day, she could read them to Cassandra and show her the passages that reminded Amaryll of her. Grand words, melodic and heady words, just like the woman’s accent, the purr she made when something pleased her - be it a good meal or a funny joke.

And it was the reason she had asked Thom for swordsmanship lessons first. Because they simultaneously saw each other at their ugliest and at their best. Their flaws and their strength lay open before the other, and though Amaryll never told him half of the lies her mind tried to convince her of, she felt he knew. He knew and he respected her still, and this alone made him the most invaluable person to her. 

It was the reason… the reason…

Amaryll touched her fingers down to a side profile of Josephine and pressed her lips together. It was one of her better colored portrait works, done shortly before the mission to Crestwood during which Sera and Amaryll unexpectedly became lovers. She was proud of her work, and in a moment of idiocy had even considered showing it to Josephine to reap… something. A smile from her? Some sense of validation, an exciting fluttering of her own heart?

Amaryll had wanted so badly to do well. To be the most charming, put-together version of herself, in order to not embarrass the ambassador. Josephine had this quality. Amaryll had always understood Thom’s infatuation with the woman, shared it, even. 

Whatever Josephine touched turned into spring, light and airy and good. She’d desired with all she was to be like that, had wanted to learn how to make a room better simply by being in it. Had wanted Josephine’s approval, for her to be proud of the Inquisitor. Perhaps she’d even wanted her to want… to want....

Amaryll broke the connection to the painting. 

It was easy, so foolishly easy to fall in love. 

Falling out of it could be, too. A gentle rejection, a conversation that didn’t go your way, a good night’s sleep. But Amaryll always kept a piece of her loves. A part that she refused to relinquish, to let go of. She remembered everybody she had ever admired, ever been infatuated with, ever loved in one way or another. A piece of them that she planted into her own mannerisms and character.

She kept them. All of them. That was love to her. The only kind she’d ever known.

  
  



	10. Merrill II

Hawke decided that the next step in the investigation should be looking into any and all elf-related crimes that had occured around the time when the attacks started. A few of them had already been sorted by the City Guard, luckily, the victims compensated and the culprits caught and tried. 

The vast majority of them, however, remained open. Which wasn’t exactly helped by Aveline’s refusal to look into them again.

“Listen, Hawke, you know I would usually not give a damn whether or not a case is closed, but-“

“But now that it’s elf-specific crimes, you’ll make an exception,” Merrill had thrown at her, and Hawke had had both hands full with keeping the two women from fighting.

Varric was out as well. Being the Viscount, he could only spend so much time wandering Kirkwall, and especially Lowtown, to search for people. Talk to people. Follow up with yet more people. His hunch regarding the propaganda pamphlet was not forgotten, he promised, but the lead should be pursued with him in the party. Unfortunately, that meant waiting for the next opportunity when he’d be free. Which wouldn’t be for a week.

Hawke didn’t blame him; either of them, really. They had work to do independent of the current investigation. And besides, it wasn’t going too well.

In truth, all the misery had started to bleed into each other. It felt near impossible to differentiate which cases of violence against elves might be connected to the particular one they were investigating. For all they knew it could be all of them; for all they knew it could be none. They bled together, into one giant knot of ugliness and grief. 

It was overwhelming, even for Hawke, and she could not imagine what it must have been like for Merrill. The woman who lived surrounded by the hatred that caused it, every day of her life. She was unrelenting in her desire to help, and Hawke almost wished she wasn’t. Because as time went on she could tell how much the questioning and the grief started to get to her.

Hawke turned her head to watch Merrill, who was walking next to her, stepping a bit closer to her to avoid walking into another pedestrian in the market. Perhaps it was only the afternoon sun blinding her, but she was wearing a grim expression on her face that could have rivaled Fenris. 

_ Daisy _ , Hawke thought with an indefinable feeling. 

Merrill nodded when a person who was wronged recounted their tale. Merrill held the hands of parents who were grieving their children. She offered a handkerchief for tears, a kind word for age-old pain from a never closing wound. 

It was her who was carrying the investigation. This, and as much of her community as would fit onto her shoulders. Merrill might not have built it, but she had spent the past decade working in its service. 

She put working people in touch with those who worked from home, so that the children of the former always had an adult nearby on the remaining days. She used her magic to help rebuild destroyed houses, picked up some healing skills here or there to help overrun and overworked healers in the city, asked Varric for contacts to help set up functioning infrastructures. Being Dalish, Merrill valued education above all else and organized days on which she would teach Alienage’s children reading and writing. She told stories about the elves of Old, all she knew about Dalish lore so that it may never be forgotten. 

The girl who’d never had many friends had become one of the most prominent and popular people in the Alienage, just as Hawke had jokingly predicted all those years ago. What she couldn’t have predicted was how all of it would change her friend.

Not far from their next destination, she noticed that her and Merrill had fallen out of step with one another. The elf was walking ahead of her now, and so Hawke lifted her hand to put on her friend’s shoulder. Merrill turned with a start; she had been so deep in thoughts that she seemed to have forgotten her.

“Merrill,” she said gently. “It’s hot as balls out here. How about we go to the Hanged Man for an ale and continue this tomorrow.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You are tired, aren’t you? Go ahead, if you like. I can catch up with you after I’ve gone to see Melike.”

Hawke looked into her sweet face. Once, she’d thought that Merrill’s eyes were open like the Waking Sea. You could fall into it with both arms open and you’d be grateful to drown in it. Now it felt like the light green was hiding a door that was firmly shut. And Marian didn’t know how to open it.

“No, I’m coming with. Melike, you said? I remember. Her son went missing two months ago, didn’t he?”

Merrill nodded and was about to continue on, when Hawke reached for her hand and held it firmly in its grasp. Only then did she start moving towards their destination.

She might not be able to ever understand elves’ plights. And it had been years since she herself had been desperately poor. But she did understand grief, she understood despair, and she understood love. She understood standing by your family’s side when things were tough.

Hawke felt Merrill shoot her a quick glance, then looking away as they made their way through the market. Without a heartbeat’s hesitation, Hawke stopped once again - this time to pull her friend into a crushing embrace. Merrill linked her hands behind Hawke’s back and pressed her slim body with all the force it held against the broader woman. They stood this way, as one, while strangers flitted about them this way and that, ignoring the strange scene right in front of them. The world went on. But in this moment, at least, neither of them felt lonely anymore.

  
  


Merrill would later-on not be able to describe how or why hugging Hawke had made such a difference to her spirit. But it had. The whole rest of the day changed. 

They walked hand in hand to visit Melike and talk to her over cups of tea. Her son, Aydin, was part of the recent program to get elves opportunities outside of the Alienage or the docks. 

Young elves, boys and girls alike, took on apprenticeships in different trades in the city in exchange for a regular loan. The craftsmen who accepted at least one apprentice were given the majority of the money to pay them, as well as a bonus for being part of the program. This was set up by Hawke and Varric in order to share the city’s recently acquired wealth with its people, and to invest in their future. The program had been running for a couple of months at this point. 

Aydin, apprentice of a shoemaker, had disappeared a month and a half ago. 

“Sometimes he would come home late,” Melike explained, keeping her hands tightly wrapped around her steaming cup, “and leave early for work if things didn’t get finished in time. I was worried but tried not to- not to think too much of it. That was before all the- all the-” 

She exhaled sharply and lowered her face. Strands of her thick, dark hair fell to cover her eyes. After a little while of battling for composure, she straightened herself a little and looked to Merrill. 

“But Master Anton came by that morning. All the way from the other end from Lowtown, can you imagine? Asking if Aydin was alright, where he was, he was supposed to come to the workshop two hours ago. He wanted to know if he had fallen ill, and I told him, I said, ‘No.’” She pressed her lips together. “I said, ‘I thought he’d walked over to the shop already, and I didn’t hear him come home last night.’ So then I ran around the Alienage asking people if they’d seen him, and Master Anton did the same. Said he checked in taverns, asking around. After a few hours he went up to Hightown to report Aydin missing. But the guard asked stupid questions and said they couldn’t do anything unless he was gone for a day or more.”

Merrill asked the usual questions. What Aydin was like, did he have a girl- or boyfriend? did he like going out? Which was the route he took between the workshop and home? was there anyone he had trouble with?

“Stupid questions!” Melike finally exclaimed, slamming her cup onto the table, and Hawke’d lips twisted in regret.

“He is fifteen years old! The coin he makes is not enough to- to- to do anything! He would not leave Kirkwall, and there’s no one who’d want to hurt my boy.”

A boy close to manhood, working, likely with a life outside of home.

“What about this Mister Anton?” Hawke asked as tactfully as she was able.

This earned her a menacing stare from the upset mother, but she did go into herself to contemplate the question.

“We aren’t asking to hurt you,” Merrill added gently. “We are only trying to consider everything. Hopefully Aydin is alright, and hopefully he will return soon. But in the meantime we need to have a picture of what happened without his help, Melike.”

The elven woman looked at the women sitting opposite trom them with a measure of resignation in her dark brown eyes. A moment passer as a thought visibly crossed her mind and the resignation melted into deep sadness. 

“He hasn’t turned up yet,” she said quietly, looking straight at the wall between Merrill and Hawke. “I don’t know which is worse. I thought perhaps...” Her voice trailed off. Merrill reached across the table to lay her hand on the mother’s. “He’s just a boy. He couldn’t have gone anywhere. Not for this long. But the man who’s killed Darien and Vivien and the others... not many have gone missing... we don’t know if he’s taking anyone... taking  _ children _ ...-“

A heavy feeling pressed from inside against Merrill’s ribcage, threatened to break its way through. Visceral, vicious anger rose up in her throat.

“We’ll find him, Melike,” Merrill said slowly. “We’ll find whoever is doing this, and we’ll find Aydin. Whatever it takes.”

“Are you alright?” Hawke asked as soon as Melike had closed the door behind them. 

“Yes.” Merrill kept her reply light, but if she was being honest, she didn’t know. “Some sleep will help, I think. And-”

“-a drink?” Hawke suggested, half-grinning. 

Late in the day as it now was, the sun set its rays just above them in the sky. Soon it would wander even further west and disappear behind the small one- and two-story houses of Lowtown. The dusty air was becoming more breathable.

Merrill looked at her friend. The peace that flooded her as she looked at Hawke in the soft evening light lifted some of the anger off her shoulders. 

“Yes. A drink would help.”

“Great. Hanged Man or shall we go to your-”

“Serahs! Merrill, Champion!” somebody shouted over to them, and they turned. 

A Dalish man, no older than forty, with dark skin and slick hair was hurrying over to where the surprised women stood. 

“Aneth’ara, Iphemriel,” Merrill greeted him and could feel Hawke relax beside her. 

She did not know him well; he had children who attended her weekly letter lessons. Sweet girls, the both of them, who came to the lessons with some knowledge of reading and writing already. And a good grasp on Dalish lore. 

“Aneth’ara,” he replied, slightly out of breath, once he’d reached them. And to Hawke, he nodded, “Champion.”

“Iphemriel, what can we do for you?”

He smiled at the mention of his name, had perhaps not expected her to remember it.

“I heard you were talking to people. About the murders. I believe I can help.”

Neither of the women replied. Experience said there were too many directions that this could go.

“Have you seen something?” Hawke asked calmly.

“No. But I won’t be scared into backing away. People, they are getting worried. Shopkeepers.”

“That’s right, you’re also selling your wares in Lowtown’s main market, aren’t you?” Merrill remembered walking past his stand of woven crafts.

Iphemriel nodded, and the conversation came to a halt. It took her a moment to understand exactly why. She noticed that Hawke was looking at her as well as Iphemriel, both waiting. Only she couldn’t quite interpret the looks she was given. But then the coin dropped.

They were leaving the decision of what to do next up to _her._

“Well, I suppose- you should come with us. We’re going to the Hanged Man. There we can talk about what to do next. Is that alright?”

  
  


The mysterious package was in place when Sera checked. Carefully stashed between where the pillar met the wall, hidden by a carpet of ivy. She didn’t know what was inside, except that it was payment for her last Red Jenny mission, but she hadn’t expected anything but a pouch of coin. Looked like the baker’s apprentice had smuggled some delicious goods to give to her, too. Those were her favorite jobs. Money was good, but food was almost better.

Before she would inspect the things she’d gotten, Sera carried it off, though. Back to the abandoned house where the Jennies base was. People who go together need a place to stay together, that much she’d learned with the Inquisition.

It was still somewhat early in the morning, so most of her Jennies would be sleeping. But Sera liked waking up early every now and then, cause it was homey when all the merchants set up in the morning, and Denerim smelled like bread. The piss nobles hadn’t crawled out of her beds yet and people were in a better mood.

Sera crossed the market square and turned right into one of the dead-end streets. At the end of the dead-end street was a house that probably belonged to somebody, but whoever it was didn’t give a shit about it. It was falling apart, roof leaking, floor-boards broken. Not the best place, but it was a place. Helping people didn’t make a lot of sovereigns, unless you had a Josie to trick nobles out of their coin.

She missed her little nook at Herald’s Rest. Her stuff didn’t look nearly as good in the broken down cabinet here as it had in the one in Skyhold. She missed Skyhold. Above all she missed Widdles, but she would be coming soon. Things would be good soon, though. This sure was.

Sera made her way into the house’s modest kitchen and placed the package on the table. She inspected the knife that was already laying on there, found a few streaks of butter, and wiped it on her shirt to get it nice and clean before severing the package’s twine and unfolding the parchment wrapped around it. The contents were in a wooden box, which was the first clue that something about it was unusual. No baker’s apprentice would just have a spare wooden box lying around. 

Sera blinked suspiciously at the box. Then she crouched down until her eyes were just above the table top, and slowly, slowly, opened it a tiny bit. But nothing stinging or venomous or yucky came out. Still suspicious, Sera raised herself a little and opened the lid further. She sniffed to figure out if there was any weird gas coming from it, but all she got was a scent of yeast and sweetness.

At last, she was standing again and fully snapped back the lid. And gasped.

Eight beautiful, gorgeous, honey-glazed little cakes were sitting in two rows of fours inside of the box, separated by a sheet from a leather pouch that clinked when Sera lifted it out. But what she really cared about were the cakes.

They were yummy-looking, golden-brown little things with purple sugar flowers sitting in the glaze. She remembered seeing ones like that, and she remembered stuffing her face with ones like that. But not since she had last been -

Where the pouch had sat, there was a folded note.

_ For the best Jenny. Same time, same place next week. Hope you enjoy. Figured you might miss them. Teetness. _

Sera’s cheeks glowed red as a bunch of conflicting feelings threatened to overwhelm her.

The Inquisitor hadn’t been her Teetness for a long time, but she still signed it. In a friendly way, not a not-friendly way. She knew Sera had Widdles now. Probably did it cause she didn’t want Sera to get shit from the other Jennies for getting/ liking fancy little cakes. Easier to say they were payment for some pranks.

She supposed this was an apology for keeping Widdles from coming to meet up in Denerim for another couple of weeks. Sera had kicked her bedpost when she’d gotten her love’s letter about that. And to be honest, she was still really peeved about it. But if the cakes kept coming...

Without thinking, she stuffed one of them in her mouth until her cheeks strained to bulge any further. It hurt, and it brought some tears to her eyes, but they were so worth it.

Yeasty and a little salty and very sweet and smokey and honey and puffy. So yummy. She  _ had _ missed them. And she missed the Inquisition, just a tiny bit.

-more Jenny stuff for bakers. Best rewards (scratched out)

-find better place for baked reward

\- there better not be bugs on it. Ew! (scratched out) No bugs!

-send letter to Teetness? Friends are friends are friends

-share future cakes with Widdles when she comes, no one else

  
  



	11. Thom I

Cole’s twirling blades came from the side, a kind gesture, come to think of it. He could have easily attacked from behind and endet the spar. This way, he gave her a chance. 

Amaryll blocked his right dagger with her own, and stepped backwards to the direction from which he had appeared. Their bodies were aligned this way, and Cole would have to spin to find a new angle. He did so, too quickly, and in a burst of panic Lavellan sheathed her dagger and grabbed a pinch of powder from her belt. 

“Boo! No good!” Rainier yelled from the stone he had planted himself on. 

Cole’s pale blue eyes darted around the lower courtyard like a lizard’s. As the young man turned on the spot, he watched for everything and nothing. Not fixing his gaze on anything for too long, just letting information pour in. This way any attempts at flanking were less likely to take effect, and he might just catch a glimpse of where the Inquisitor was moving beforehand. 

His head spun around when he heard the sound of impact right behind him, and as soon as he saw that it had been a small stone hitting the dirt, he realized he’d fallen for a trick.

Amaryll reappeared, crouching near his feet, and before Cole could jump away she was leaning down on her forearms and had already moved to get momentum with her legs; the other rogue felt her calves hitting his shins, and suddenly he was falling forward. 

“Ho!” Rainier exclaimed and started clapping. 

Cole was panting. Partially out of surprise and partially because his elbows had gotten the worst of it and the ground had hit a very specific point and caused his bones to sing. But when he looked to his right to see how his friend was faring, she didn’t look any more of a winner. The stunt had taken it out of her, and instead of quickly getting back up into a fighting stance, she had simply rolled out of the way and was breathing heavily into the morning air. 

“That was good,” he smiled, and for a moment didn’t think she’d heard his quiet voice. “That is something to practice.”

Lavellan nodded, but remained where she lay. Still quieting her chest. 

“You two alright over there?” Rainier called over. 

Cole felt for Amaryll, and could tell that what emotions had carried her through the match had sunk back into the depths from which they had come. 

She had apologized to him, not even a week ago. After a few days of deliberate avoidance on her part, a gift had appeared in Cole’s room. He had been able to tell that Amaryll had been there almost immediately; her presence had lingered in the air. 

On his bed, he’d found a small package. Within, the most curious construction. Two plates of wood, connected by two hinges and a small lock, no doubt constructed by Hammond. Once the loose lock was unfastened and the plated folded apart, one could see the paintings within.

What little could be seen of the background had been painted in a midnight blue. The centerpieces of each plate respectively were him, and Maryden. Their profiles were turned inwards, towards one another, and they were surrounded by intricate garlands of flowers. All of it in the appearance to mimic stained glass. The portraits were intricate, the flowers soft and vibrant, and there was so much feeling in it all that Cole forgot to breathe each time he opened the wooden book anew. 

Everything he had ever been given before had served a purpose. Food, masterfully crafted daggers, his scented oil. This was perhaps the first material item whose only purpose was for him to look at and enjoy.

The verbal apology had followed the next day, when Amaryll came to the tavern. She never lied. She could lie, and she did lie, to people. About how she was, about things she thought, about things she wanted. But she had never lied to him. 

“I’m sorry for what I said to you in the war room,” she’d told him over the ale she was drinking. “I meant it in the moment, but I don’t anymore. You’ve never given me reason to mistrust you, and it was stupid to think you would. I hope you can forgive me at some point. ”

He did. Told her that he didn’t fault her for the things inside her that were broken. Reminded her that the shards of all the broken things were still reflecting light, could still be beautiful. The only thing he didn’t tell Amaryll was that he never again would try to grasp at the shards to help her; falling into them once and getting pierced had been enough. 

Cole still loved her for what she was. For some the things she had done. But she wasn’t his sister anymore. And so when he felt her sinking next to him, from within her own body deeper, deeper, deeper below ground, he didn’t feel guilty when propping himself up on his elbows.

“I have to go,” he said just loud enough for the other man to hear, but he paused for a moment. 

Amaryll turned her absent pale green eyes to him. “Thank you,” she said, and this time it was Cole nodding. He then rose to his full height, walked over to the well where his hat was hanging by the bucket and stalked off towards the upper courtyard. 

Heavy steps approached the elf, and Lavellan closed her eyes to feel them. The vibrations of the moving soil against her skull. 

“Need a hand getting up?” she heard Rainier say after he came to a halt by her head.

“I’m fine,” she said and opened her eyes. Rainier’s voice was so pleasing to her. How often had she had half a mind to ask him to simply tell her stories so she could listen to him, and maybe fall asleep. She never did, though, and she wouldn’t ask now. All she did was throw a wicked grin straight up where the burly man was hovering above her. “You could lay down next to me if you wanted. It is quite cooling down here in the grass.” 

“I think I’m rested enough, thanks.”

She smiled at his slightly sarcastic tone.“Sure?” she said to keep playing into the bit she had started. “We would be the talk of Skyhold.”

Rainier smirked, and his eyes showed an amused twinkle. “Which I’m sure you would greatly enjoy, my lady.”

“I’ll take it over the pitiful looks any day” she shot back. Amaryll realized only after the words had left her mouth that they sounded far less joking than she had intended. And the twinkle in Rainier’s eyes died right there. He was serious all of the sudden, and serious was the last thing she wanted to be right now.

With a sigh she lifted her remaining hand, and the sobered man helped her stand back up. Amaryll started slapping her thighs to get some of the dust and grass to come off of her leggings. 

“In the mood for a spar with me?” he asked, clearly to change the subject. 

“In the mood for an ale?” she asked back, only raising her head while continuing what she was doing.

“Before midday?”

She sighed again. Only that now it was an exaggerated, theatrical one. “Oh, must you be so reasonable. There is nobody left I can drink with in the middle of the day.”

She didn’t like the look he gave her. A mixture of concern and… like he was searching for something in her voice or on her face. What she disliked the most, however, how persistent that look was. 

Thom saw this, but he did not relent until the Lady Inquisitor finally started visibly squirming under it.

“I’ll go sit down for a bit,” she said a bit too abruptly and started staggering off across the lower courtyard. Thom followed her, out of true concern for his friend, but also in part out of habit. At last she settled down on the steps to one of the guard towers, across from where the healer’s camp used to be way back in the day before the renovation of the hut between the tavern and the quartermaster’s lodgings.

He wondered for a bit if she minded that he came along, but on the other hand she had not said anything to discourage him. And so he sat down next to her as she was staring at the ground a few feet ahead of him.

It was difficult to say how the Inquisitor was doing, nowadays. She had rediscovered a drive similar to the one she had had during the first year of the Inquisition. She was buzzing about the way she always had, never spending too much time in one place. Talking to merchants, talking to soldiers, talking to healers, talking to Chantry sisters, talking, talking, talking. Continuously asking for updates, about how people’s days were going, whether there were any complaints, any needs, anything. Walking around the fortifications, staring off between the mountains the way Thom was used to her doing. 

But at the same time… there were bouts of… something that he could read off her face in one instance or another. Melancholy. Resentment, maybe. At any rate he could not imagine that whatever had kept her confined in her own quarters for so long had simply disappeared. He now regretted not having gone there more often. But it had been the first time he had ever witnessed the Inquisitor completely withdrawing herself from any form of company. And so he had figured that maybe she just needed time to sort herself out. Sometimes solitude brought clarity. Now he wondered if that had been the wrong course of action to limit his visits to a handful. Lady Lavellan was not him. And as far as he saw, she had no great personal failing or crime to contemplate. 

“You do know that I am here, should you require someone to listen, Inquisitor,” he said to break the silence after a few minutes.

“I appreciate that,” she returned flatly.

A clear rejection, judging by her tone. But Thom was set on not letting things go for once. People’s business was their own, unless they wished to air it. But a friendship also meant that one could fall apart and see each other’s ugly sides without having to feel like the lesser for it. Lady Lavellan had done this for him, after the business in Val Royeaux. He had been nasty to himself, and crude to her, and yet still she saved him from certain death and accepted him into the Inquisition as a free man.

“It must be difficult for you,” Thom started once again, his tone calm and empathetic.

The Inquisitor’s back shot up straight. She glared at him, the lines of her face a cage for barely contained anger. “What is that supposed to mean? What are you on about?”

“All I was saying was that if you want to talk about it, I’m here,” Thom said carefully.

“Talk about which?” Lady Lavellan answered. Such bitterness in her voice. “About how my gods are not gods? Or about how I’ve been worshipping the first people to enslave my kind since I was little? Or rather how the Wolf is preying on elves who are so desperate for a sense of identity and belonging, who have been mistreated for so long, that some of them would even sacrifice all life in Thedas for a slim chance of restoration?” She scoffed, and her back rounded out again as she slightly slumped forward. “Or… whatever.”

“Yes, that would do for a start.” He would not let himself be deterred by the attitude that the elf was putting forward.

Lady Lavellan tossed her hand up in defeat. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if anyone could understand. Even my clan… who would believe me? No other Dalish has seen what I’ve seen. All I have is stories, and if Fen’Harel in person comes to them and reveals himself, promising freedom… who am I? To tell them not to follow? Who would listen?”

“You’re the Inquisitor,” Thom interjected softly.

“ _ Former _ Inquisitor. And even with this?” She raised her stunted arm and shook her head. “I have nothing to prove who I am. I can’t open a rift and then close it to show them I’m me. I would travel through Ferelden and Orlais, and the Free Marches, to convince who I can to not follow the Wolf. But what would be the point? Fen’Harel may be the god of misfortune and deceit, but my people are starved. When he comes to them, tells them his side of the story, with his soft words and kind eyes, most of them will follow him into anything. He is the first link to a past we have been aching to know. They will destroy this world because it has harboured nothing but pain for them. What do they care that there may be more waiting for them once the Veil falls? As long as they get to find out where we came from. Solas has a  _ plan _ , after all.” Her last words were a mockery of what he’d told her after she’d reached him in the world beyond mirrors, and repeated like that they sounded like venom.

Thom kept silent. The Inquisitor lifted her other arm to wipe the residual sweat from her hairline. 

“I’m tired.”

“I know.” 

“But I am fine,” she she said in a fierce, bristling tone. As if she were desperate to convince him, or herself. So much weight shoved into three short words. The Inquisitor paused and frowned. “I am fine,” she repeated, gentler. “Most of the time I am. I wake up, I get up, I… work. But sometimes… some  _ days _ …” A sound related to both a groan and a sigh escaped her. 

“Some days are harder than others, and it all comes back at once,” Thom completed for her. “I know that feeling.” He waited for a few seconds, to see if there was any reaction from his friend. But aside from the deepening of her frown, there was none. She was still not looking at him, and so he continued: “You have been through more than most other people in Thedas. You have made decisions that rocked this world. It’s not fair that you had so much pain and responsibility placed on her shoulders.”

Lady Lavellan blinked slowly, and he saw her press her lips together and twist. Then she leaned forward, rubbed the back of her neck and kept her finger tips buried in her hair, with her elbow resting on her thigh. She wasn’t looking at Thom, she hadn’t been this entire time since she’d started talking.

“I’m glad you were there at the Winter Palace,” she finally said, her voice somewhat lower in volume than before. “And I’m glad you’re here now, too.”

“I am where you need me, my lady,” he replied warmly. 

“There’s no need to address me that way, you know.” She turned to look at him. “ I’m not any more higher-born than you are, and I won’t be the Inquisitor for much longer. Lavellan will be enough. Or my first name, if you want.”

He sighed.

“Old habits die hard, I suppose. I hope you will forgive me if I do slip up once or twice.”

“Consider yourself forgiven,” she said with a sliver of mocking. When she met his eyes and saw the mild disapproval, she recoiled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it as harshly as it came out.”

“Consider yourself forgiven,” he retorted, and to his delight, made her smile.

it reminded him that she had given out smiles like candies for children, for a time. Sweet ones, wicked ones, sad ones, alluring ones, sly ones, deceiving ones, silly ones, happy ones. Those had become rare. Another thing to regret in the latest ordeal.

But it felt good, this moment, sitting next to her. With her. He had never had cause to regret joining the Inquisition when he did, and he had never truly regretted gaining the Inquisitor’s friendship. There had been ups and down, and strange moment where things had hung in the balance. But this was it, now. A mutual, sturdy friendship. 

And Thom would not have traded it for anything for the world.


	12. Varric II

Darktown would always remain Darktown. That was a reassuring constant, like the wind, like the seasons, like the everlasting stench of piss down here. And in spite of all his efforts to improve the life in Kirkwall, Varric would not have traded Lowtown and Darktown for the world. 

Because Kirkwall needed them. A friendship forged in the bowels of the Deep Roads, laughter and a challenge in the middle of a battle in the streets, a glowing hand just after the world was shattered to pieces. There was light to be found in the dark, and there were people who needed the liminal spaces to thrive. People who could not depend on a proper life to catch them when they lost a struggle against their vices. When ‘proper’ life let them down. Varric had known plenty of those people, those who lived on the periphery. In his experience, those were the best, the kindest people.

Shit, he was getting soft as age caught up with him. Or maybe that was just the lack of sleep. He hadn’t gotten much the previous two nights. Too much stuff buzzing about in his skull. A feeling that sat deep in his guts telling him something was gonna go wrong. 

Which was why he had worked hard yesterday to get as much bureaucratic crap done and as many meetings over with as he possibly could. Varric had relished the high of the focussed work, but it had been somewhat uncomfortably frantic as well. As if he were rushing towards a cliff to jump off.

Marching through Darktown, however, he felt like it was worth it. Ever since Hawke had found that pamphlet, he’d had an inkling that this series of murders was connected to something bigger than what it looked like on the surface. And he’d be damned if he was just going to sit in his cushy keep and let his friends do all the work. 

Varric looked to his left, were Merrill was walking in front of the new guy, both elves with concentrated frowns on their faces. He had considered asking Aveline to join them. It would certainly have been helpful to have a close range fighter, not to mention a battering ram like her. But he’d figured that bringing the Captain of the Guard to meet a Coterie chief might have too much explosive potential. So, Iphemriel it was. A dual-wield rogue who had no problem being stage front and centre, as long as Hawke’s protective and healing spells prevented him being cut down.

Varric turned his gaze to right to look at Hawke, whose deliberately relaxed expression was underlined by her lifted chin and delicate jawline. She was strutting like she owned the place - a posture that she usually reserved for Hightown, or the seedier parts of Darktown. _You can’t touch me so don’t you even try._

“Here we go,” Varric announced as he pointed to a tiny dark staircase to their right. The group slowed.

“Has this always been here?” Merrill asked. “I swear we’ve come by here hundreds of times, and this has never been here before.”

Hawke wordlessly raised her hand, palm up, to invite Varric to take the lead. 

“Relax, Daisy. It’ll be fine.”

“Right. Your editor is probably less lethal than other members of the Coterie.”

“Mh, I wouldn’t say so.”

“Why, what will she do?” New Guy asked. “Stab us with a quill?”

“If she’s in a good mood.”

“What’ll she do if she’s in a bad mood?” He heard Hawke ask right behind him.

“Then we duck and run as fast as our feet carry us and hope for a miracle. Maybe another kindly intervention by a Witch of the Wilds?”

To his delight, Hawke let out a snort. Which was one of her higher forms of praise for a joke. This lift in Varric spirits was not long-lived, unfortunately, as he remembered that nowadays things could never be easy. 

_Witch of the Wilds_ , he thought, _with the spirit of an old, dead, elven goddess_. 

Sometimes he forgot how much of those ancient legends had found their way into the edges of his life. Mocking them was not as easy anymore. 

The rest of the way to Varric’s editor was more or less quiet. Annabelle’s office was tucked away from most of Darktown’s open meeting place, where the bustling and grime could pose a distraction to her work. If she valued one thing - aside from proper grammar and placement of commas - it was quiet. Coming to her place of business with three people in tow was not likely to render her mood peachy, but when was it ever.

At some point, the winding ways slimmed enough for Varric and Hawke to be forced to walk sideways. 

“Maker’s balls,” Varric cursed over the rattle of his armor, and Merrill giggled.

“Let me guess,” Hawke directed at him, “your editor is an actual sewer rat with teeny tiny glasses?”

“Wish that it were, Hawke. Almost there, folks, look alive.”

A deep exhale came from the dwarf when he walkway stopped and he sidestepped into an airy room. First thing Hawke and Varric did was drop their agitated shoulder and take a few deep breaths. Hawke even bent forwards in full Champion’s armor, hands on her thighs, breathing deeply. Merrill, on the other hand, stepped out like the picture of grace herself. New Guy simply gave a subtle smile with an ironic twist of his lips that hinted at a sharp humor. As it were, they dusted themselves off and continued. 

The rest of the way led through a few doors and by a few grumpy Coterie guards that reluctantly let them through after some sweet talking.

What expected them after the last door was a sharp bark.

“Spank my ass and call me princess,” an elderly, pale dwarven woman behind the table shouted. She downed the rest of an amber liquid in the glass to her left, then reached for a pipe to stuff. “Look who’s come to visit my little ditch.”

Ditch was no understatement. Crummy as it looked on the outside, the inside wasn’t much better. The walls perhaps had been white at one point, but that must’ve been in another life. Almost all furniture was laden with stacks of paper higher than either dwarf in it, strips of leather, containers with glue, inkwells, and crates. The most lavish thing in the room was the big, dark table propped in its middle, behind which Annabelle organized her business.

“I thought you said she was a Coterie boss,” Iphemriel whispered behind Varric as he was seizing the old woman up. 

“I am, and I don’t like people whispering around me,” Annabelle rasped. The stare she gave him was so icy he almost shrank down in his leather armor. Annabelle turned her attention to Varric. “Since you used the back entrance, I’m assuming this is not a social call. Who are you bringing me here, Varric?”

“Well, first of all let me say that you look lovelier than I remember, Annabelle,” he said as he stepped closer.

His opposite snorted to show her disapproval and continued searching for something. She patted over paper, her sides, stuffed her hands into her pockets.

“Cut the nug crap,” Annabelle retorted and put one end of the pipe between her teeth. “I’m sitting on a manuscript that has a completely unreasonable pace, and I want be done with this before my bony ass grows roots.” 

This entire time, she still hadn’t found what she was looking for.

“Allow me,” Hawke offered from the back. Without a moment’s hesitation, she walked up to the Coterie boss and leaned forward, Champion’s armor and all.

From where he stood, Varric couldn’t see Annabelle’s expression. But he could very vividly picture the greedy gleam appearing in her dark eyes as Hawke offered some fire to light up the old woman’s tobacco. And indeed it was still there when the mage stepped back behind Varric.

“Champion,” she nodded at Hawke, then puffed some smoke. “And you I don’t know, elves,” she directed at Merrill and Iphemriel. "But you are no doubt dangerous and impressive, if the Lord Viscount has deigned to bring you to my muck-filled little corner of Darktown. Good to see that you’ve not outgrown us as of yet. Would have figured you were too big of a hat to let yourself be seen with our lot.” _Playing herself small now, I see._ “What can I do for you?”

“Ah, come on, Annabelle. You don’t have to be so formal with us,” he tried to appease the Coterie chief. “But there is something we need.”

“Information,” Merrill shot as though she had just risen from a bad crime novel.

Annabelle, no doubt thinking the same thing, laughed. Or rather wheezed in an attempt at laughter. 

“I like her,” she let Varric know and drew a colloquial chuckle and inclining nod from him.

“I like her too, but we’re not here for a social call, as you said” he said to change back the topic and pulled he pamphlet from out of his shirt. Without any delays he put it right on the table before Annabelle, who in turn picked it up. “We found something. And I thought it was _very_ interesting.”

_ATTENTION! DO NOT TOLERATE SCUM_

_Idiot puppet masters want to bring scum into our spaces. To take our money. What is next? Our houses? Our wives? Don’t we get a say? We need to say NO MORE!!_

_They can’t overwhelm all of us!! Have we not suffered enough?_

_NO MORE to rich bastards repainting Kirkwall to their liking. NO MORE TO ELVEN INFILTRATION!! Take out the exclamation points you_

  
  


“Well, would you look at that. ” Annabelle leaned back in her chair. As she had been reading, a distinct wrinkle had appeared between her brows, and the ones on her forehead had deepened as well. “Bloody nug humpers tried to shortchange me on the copy fee. Swiped the first draft and copied it themselves. Amateurs.”

“So you do know something about this.” Hawke shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “Who ordered this pamphlet?”

Annabelle puffed some smoke out. She once again mustered the human up and down, though this time for a dramatic pause to do its best. 

“Why should I tell you, Champion? Shit customers as they may be, they are customers still.”

Hawke flashed her a knowing smile.“You want to deal with them yourself, don’t you?”

“So what if I do? They owe me money. Whatever your gripe with them is, it’s not my problem.”

Hawke was about to open her mouth to argue when Varric raised his hand to silence her. Surprised as she was, she nevertheless closed her lips. A sharp look from Iphemriel bounced between the two.

“We’re not making any headway here,” Varric told her. He redirected his attention to his editor, who was watching with bemusement.

“Annabelle,” he said in a sweet sing-song voice. “What if I could offer you something as a token of my goodwill?”

If she were a dog, he could have seen her ears perk up. But she said nothing, only watched him with her slimmed dark eyes. The smirk she carried on her face was one he associated with someone else. Only that here it held daggers.

“What if I told you that I already had in the works, and almost finished, a manuscript about the Inquisitor’s tale? And that I was looking for the perfect editor? It has just the right amount of commas, I promise.”

“And here I thought you were never again going to publish anything with me,” she retorted drily.

The benevolent smile never left Varric’s lips.

“I could be persuaded to lay the whole issue with my royalties from Orlesian sales to rest. For some help with our little problem. We are looking for the people who issued these pamphlets.”

“Almost finished you say?

“Only needs a little spit and polish. _Your_ spit and polish.”

Without missing a beat, Annabelle set her pipe down and directed her gaze at the Champion.

“Ragged, angry fellow,” she began as if she were filing a complaint. "Didn’t like elves a whole lot - no offense, dearies,” she threw at Merrill and Iphemriel, who knitted their brows in distaste. ”Liked his exclamation points a bit _too_ much.”

“Anything to tell us where to find them?”

“Human. Pale, brown hair, brown eyes. He works by the docks, judging by the smell. Not the brightest. His friend, Daniel, is a whiny fellow. Seems to think the sun shines out of the other’s ass. Never too far apart, the two of them. Don’t know how they found the back entrance, but somebody who I’ve had dealings with before must’ve told them about it.”

“How did they pay?” Varric asked.

“In cash.”

He whistled through his teeth.

“Interesting. Dock workers who can pay that much - and in cash? Could have been paid by a noble to have the pamphlets drawn up."

“What makes you say that?” Iphemriel wanted to know from the back.

“Annabelle is the best editor in the business. Her work isn’t cheap, so she usually works on credit,” Varric explained to his companions. 

“And on much better projects,” the editor added. Immediately her face scrunched together like she regretted that slip of tongue.

“What made you take this one on?” Iphemriel asked immediately.

“Don’t take this personally, dearie.” She straightened her back and unwittingly folded her hands over the pamphlet in front of her. Varric, in the meantime, could see Merril tense up in the corner of his eye. “It’s just that these new reforms that our current viscount implemented have been hurting business. Therefore certain parties in our organization see it imperative to acquiesce with individuals whose main concern is to undergo those reforms.”

“And does that include murder?” 

Nobody had expected Merrill to raise her voice. Without missing a beat, Hawke slid to her side and laid one gloved hand on her friend’s arm. But Merrill shook her off as she kept staring daggers at the dwarf across from her. 

“Andraste’s ass.” Annabelle dropped the act as quickly as she had taken it on. “No. We’re not the Crows. We don’t order hits. Or rather I don’t, that is. All we’ve been doing has been putting some power into… mh. Shall we say those who want to stir the pot?”

“But why?”

“Workforce, dearie. If every orphaned child learns to read and takes up respectable work, would they still come to the Coterie? If parents don’t have to worry about how to feed their children, where would that leave us? If elves are able to make enough money to sustain themselves-”

“You become irrelevant,” Merrill finished. Her face was a wall, but her tone… she sounded so resigned that Varric felt a wrenching in his heart. 

“Thank you, Annabelle,” he said. “You’ll be receiving my manuscript first thing next week. I swear it on Bianca.”

“Let us go,” Merrill murmured, turned on her bare heels, and marched off.

The rest of the way to the Alienage she wouldn’t speak a word.


	13. Leliana

The beauty of her office, Josephine discovered, was that it was  _ not _ located in a tower. She had come to appreciate that fact on several occasions, but there were times when she did so more than others. Those namely being when she climbed stairs to visit her friend.

She arrived at the rookery, sweat beading at her hairline, a sticky feeling on her skin, and short of breath. Was she getting older?

Leliana didn’t notice her friend’s arrival at first. The spymaster was busy cooing to a raven on her arm, and Josephine wondered what she could possibly tell that bird. Nevertheless it was a sweet sight, and  _ almost _ worth the climb.

Leliana walked the raven over to the window, bent her knees a bit - and then like a coiled spring bounced the bird up and off into the air. It was then that she turned around and saw the ambassador supporting herself against the wall.

“Josie,” she greeted her with delight in her voice, and walked over. “To what do I owe this honor? The interlude is tomorrow, or am I mistaken?”

“No, you’re quite right,” Josephine replied. “I noticed I have two unfilled-” She gulped air. “-hours in my schedule and decided to ask you on a walk. Though I am now regretting the decision. Did you  _ have _ to pick the highest tower to work from?”

Leliana laughed her bell-like laughter. 

“I appreciate the sentiment. But you could have sent a messenger, you know.”

“I felt this was more personal for a social call.”

With the grace of a high-born dancer Leliana stepped closer to Josephine and offered her arm. The ambassador gladly took it, and together they ventured all the way down again. 

“So what prompted this, Josie?” Leliana asked.

“I felt like a breath of fresh air, and wanted some company. There is only so much time we have together before our paths diverge again.”

The other woman nodded.

In truth, there was an additional reason for Josephine’s decision to coax her friend into some private time. But she wondered if she first would have to fill the bard up with some wine in order to safely broach the topic. 

They nodded and greeted people they passed by in the library, and in the main hall. Clerics sent by Divine Victoria had started trickling into Skyhold these past few days, though they mostly kept to the herb garten and Andraste’s shrine there. 

“Sister Nightingale,” a voice called to them when the women were about to exit the hall. An Inquisition messenger brought some papers Leliana had requested, and she instructed him to leave them on her desk in the rookery. Josephine didn’t envy the messenger the climb, particularly because the young man had obviously hoped to avoid it by springing the documents onto his superior downstairs.

Half-way down the stairs, a noble tried tying Josephine into a conversation, and then finally in the upper courtyard a Chantry initiate caught both of them with a menial concern she wanted to get off her chest.

“You know,” Josephine started after they’d gotten rid of her. “I still have a few bottles of Antivan Red in my chambers. One of those would probably make for a calmer past-time than a walk along the barricades.”

“I’d prefer a Côte du C œ ur, but if that is what we have, I suppose it’ll do,” Leliana said, peppering her reply with an implication that did not go past Josephine.

“Oh, do not even start with Côte du C œ ur,” the ambassador replied ironically as she turned around to take those stairs back up to the main hall. “I would rather drink sewer water. Orlesians do not know good wine.”

“What a scandalous statement, Ambassador Montilyet! Don’t let our noble guests hear that.” 

“Antiva  _ invented _ good wine. It is hardly an insult. Ask anyone, Sister Nightingale.”

“Any Antivan, you mean?”

“Antiva has the climate and the rich soil necessary for growing exquisite wines. Since the Antivan kingdom never put as many resources into expansion, we were able to capitalize on the products we already had and perfect them. Orlesian wine has its creative characteristics, to be sure, but those are added after the fact. Antivan wine is quite simply outstanding as a base, it has no need for added spices or fruits.”

The smirk on Leliana’s face deepened and deepened throughout this monologue. As per usual, playful banter had quickly turned into a short economic and political lecture by Josephine. Leliana did not mind, however. It was an endearing thing, especially because the ambassador’s pride and love for her country shone so genuine.

One last interruption came up, this time by the Inquisitor. She was crossing the main hall with a thick stack of books in her arms. Leliana saw her eyes light up before she even opened her mouth to call out. 

“Lady Montilyet!”

“Oh what-” Josephine had started, exasperated by the additional distraction, but Leliana saw her quickly bite her tongue when Inquisitor Lavellan approached. 

And maybe that was just Leliana’s imagination, but she could have sworn that the skin above the ambassador’s collar started showing a few pink flecks.

“Inquisitor,” Josephine chirped unnaturally cheerful..

“Ambassador. Sister Leliana.” Lavellan gave her a friendly nod before turning back to Josephine. “I’m sorry to interrupt, I know you’ve been especially busy lately. But I was wondering if you would have the time to discuss a personal favor I need.” She paused almost imperceptibly. “Not now, of course,” she added quickly, looking between Leliana and Josephine. “Whenever you can spare a few minutes.”

“Of course, Your Worship,” Josephine replied, still in that almost uncharacteristically cheery tone that rang alarm bells for the spymaster. And besides… had there been a second’s hesitation in her reply?

“Tomorrow? Before lunch? I won’t take much of your time.” 

How low and guttural she made her voice sound, pure velvet. She may not have grown up at court or around nobles, but that did not mean the Inquisitor did not make every effort to appear chivalrous. Which was perhaps what Leliana disliked the most about Lavellan; that chivalry seemed to be an effort to her, not something that came naturally.

“Of course, Your Worship,” Josephine said again. She realized that she had repeated herself, and the pink splotches on her neck deepened in color.

No. Leliana disliked the most that even the Inquisitor’s faux chivalry worked on Josephine, when the woman was usually able to sniff out and deflect most manipulation from others. Over two years later, and Leliana still got the feeling she was right to be concerned about the two women’s interactions. But by now it was too late to step in; the two would likely never see each other again after they left Skyhold. 

Leliana had been observing the two for a long while, and the only consolation she had was that Lavellan was superficial enough to never truly jeopardize Josephine’s integrity or happiness. She was always on the periphery, like a buzzing insect, enough to disturb the ambassador’s balance, but not intrusive enough for her to actually invite any tangible action. It was a kindness, in one way, but very cruel in others. 

Only lately had Leliana seen less and less of the two women together, where she had expect to observe the opposite. With most of her companions strewn across Thedas, Leliana had expected for the Inquisitor to latch even tighter onto Josephine. The latter, however, had kept herself busy indeed. Aside from the many long meetings in the war room that had been taking place now that the Inquisitor was back, the two of them had not spent any time alone together. Was Josephine avoiding her?

“Wonderful! Ladies,” the Inquisitor said, and attempted a comedic bow to excuse herself. It didn’t go smoothly, mostly due to the multitude of books pressed against her flat chest, which Leliana supposed served the elf’s purpose of appearing sympathetic.

“A bit of light reading for the night?” Leliana asked, noting the titles of the books.

_ Water, Fire, Earth, Air, And Aether: A Study of Elemental Magic. A Practical Guide of Barriers Against Hostile Magic. Where No Mage Has Gone Before: The Fade And What We Know. Runes And Their Connections. A Dreamer’s Song. _

“Oh. Yes,” Lavellan replied. “Best to make use of what time I have left with the excellent library at our disposal. Well, then. Enjoy your evening.”

“You too, Inquisitor.” 

“Thank you,” was Josy’s contribution. For just a moment she watched the elf walk away towards the undercroft before turning back to Leliana. “Shall we?”

*

“The sample I took from your hand? O-of course I still have it. But why would you need it?” Dagna asked. “Do you want it back?”

“Not exactly.”

Amaryll had her behind propped against the workbench which she had so often utilised to have different armors tinted. Her arms were crossed in defense, but the expression on her face was warm and open.

“I was wondering... “ 

Dagna held her breath as the Inquisitor averted her eyes for a moment. 

“I was wondering if it were possible to recreate the anchor.” Amarll redirected her gaze on the woman who was not that much smaller than her, and was met by a stunned expression. “You’ve done such a marvelous job with the rune from a small sample of red lyrium, and I suppose… if there is any hope-”

Watching Dagna’s eyebrows lower themselves and her lips press together had a clot form in Amaryll’s throat. The pity on the smith’s face was answer enough. 

“I don’t think that’s possible, Inquisitor,” she said, voice overflowing with sympathy, and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I am…  _ so _ sorry.”

Amaryll nodded as if she had been prepared for that answer. And she had. But not for the disappointment that would bloom in her chest and press down on her lungs; she breathed against it. 

“Well, that was to be expected,” she said flatly. “Thank you for your time anyways, Dagna. I assume you will be leaving soon to meet Sera in Denerim?”

A fine pink veil lowered itself over the dwarf’s cheeks and nose. 

“Yes!” she exclaimed enthusiastically, and Amaryl relaxed at the change of topic. “There is an empty house that Sera said we could stay in. She said she fought another Jenny for a room that would be just mine, that I could work out of as long as I promise that there’ll be nothing that could blow up- and- ah. There I go, rambling again.”

From the look on her face she had half expected to see a confused or half-exasperated expression from the Inquisitor, but all she found was warm joy. 

“Feel free to ramble on. I’m happy for you and can’t wait to hear of your exploits to come. You have to write me from time to time. Though I’m sure I’ll hear about your genius inventions sooner or later anyways.”

The blush on Dagna’s face deepened.

“Genius,” she repeated with a throwaway hand gesture.

Amaryll’s smile turned into a smirk, then back into a smile. With a small sigh she pushed her butt away from the workbench and angled her torso to grab the books she had placed down behind her. She didn’t notice that Dagna’s eyes got caught on one of the titles, specifically the one to do with runes. A sudden net of memories was brought into motion, creativity lapping at them.

“Inquisitor!”

Amaryll turned her head to face the other woman, her expression expectant. Coming down to the undercroft she had hoped for a miracle from the master smith. And albeit initially disappointed, she would leave feeling like perhaps the days she would feel helpless were numbered.

  
  


*

Josephine giggled as she pulled a bottle of Antivan Red from a hidden chamber in her armoire. 

“It is not cooled, unfortunately,” she apologized in a regretful tone as she presented the bottle to Leliana, who sat comfortably on the chaise longue. “But when Dorian was taking bottle after bottle from the wine cellar, and then we had Lord and Lady Trevelyan visit…” - she clicked her tongue - “I felt it wise to stash a few of the older bottles here. They are too precious to be downed like cheap spirits. It is truly remarkable how few bottles we have had to replenish since Dorian has come into his role as Tevinter ambassador.”

“He is doing well, I hear,” Leliana replied. She swung her feet, which she had previously tucked close to her behind on the chaise longue, down to the floor and reached for the wine glasses on the low table in front of her. “His stern approach and views are making him a few enemies, but nothing his wit and charms can’t cancel out in new alliances.” She held the glasses towards Josephine, who by now had opened the bottle and began pouring.

“That is good to hear. But now - no more talk of work. There. And now tell me again how Côte de Coeur compares, I dare you.”

Leliana, still sipping, raised her hand to signal defeat. “Ah,” she sighed. “Not as sweet as I prefer, but beautiful. You picked well, Josie.”

“I should think so.” Clearly pleased with herself, she finally sat down in a heavy, elegant armchair to the bard’s right. She closed her eyes, sighed, and leaned her head back. “Oh, I am so looking forward to finally having a different Antivan wine for each dinner in a week!”

“You will be leaving soon?”

“Well.” Josephine opened her eyes and moved her head to look at Leliana. “Sooner or later we will all leave Skyhold. I will of course smooth the Inquisition’s last days, and afterwards… it shall be painful to leave this place, but I feel it is for the best. There are new ventures waiting for me in Antiva.”

“And Adorno,” Leliana added.

“Indeed.” A feather-light smile played on Josephine’s face. Contentment. It was nice to see.

“How is he faring?”

“He wrote that he misses me terribly and is looking forward to my return. He also wrote about some changes he has made to our new estate… I only hope he consulted Yvette. He has an excellent taste, but some of his creations are a bit outdated…”

Leliana watched as her friend drifted off in thought, circling the fingertip of her index on the rim of her glass. She always got tipsy so easily. And she often either completely got lost within herself and her pondering, or she grew chatty and uninhibited. Both moods usually lasted a while. Against her friend’s expectations, however, Josephine snapped out of it within a few moments. 

“What is your plan?” she asked Leliana out of the blue. “You never told me.”

And if it’d been up to Leliana, she wouldn’t. She felt herself clamming up, suddenly tense.

“I might acquire a small estate, perhaps in Val Royeaux. Retire, the way people expect me to. Keep working in a more subtle manner and observe what happens in the world,” she replied.

Josephine stared at her, either to probe her for some truth she wished to see, or because the alcohol was taking effect and she had trouble tearing her eyes away. No matter the intent, Leliana returned the gaze with casual nonchalance. Finally, Josephine blinked and took another generous sip. She closed her eyes to enjoy it properly.

“And besides that?” she asked afterwards.

“What do you mean? What else would there be?”

Leliana knew that Josy was asking out of friendly concern. Most of her life had been nothing but moving around, continuously spinning in circles to chase this or that purpose. Working at Skyhold was providing her with some geographical stability, but her mind still ran at the same rapid pace to juggle everything that needed to be considered, planned, and get done. It should be easy to plan the future, with all the connections and resources at her fingertips, and freedom close enough to taste on her tongue. She had given years over years in the service of Thedas. It would be justifiable to settle down.

Yet she could not. 

“What about… your Warden?” Josephine asked, and turned Leliana’s gut to ice. “I know you have been exchanging letters with her these past few years. You obviously know how to contact her… and you always said you wanted to reunite eventually, once things calmed down. Things have been calm, with the exception of the Exalted Council. What happened?”

Air got stuck halfway in Leliana’s throat.

How could she possibly explain… admit to herself even…

Had this been Josephine’s plan? To get her comfortable and filled with wine to ask such questions?

A venomous anger coiled in her chest. But she reminded herself that Josie didn’t mean to cross any boundaries. In a friendship like theirs, such topics should not be off limits. Maker knew that Leliana was aware of almost every detail in Josie’s life.

“ _ My love and I are never truly apart. When this is all over, I will join her again. And this time, nothing will come between us. _ ”

A promise she had made to herself, and her love, and the Inquisitor. And yet she was still here. Caged up here in the mountains, though by what she could not tell. 

She had learned that whatever the future might hold, the Maker did not foresee a peaceful life for her. There was never no crisis, there was never an absence of loss, so how could she involve her love in all this? Whatever happiness was to be found with Nadia, it would not last, and that perhaps was the thought that hurt her heart more than the distance between them.

During her worst nights, Leliana saw painful memories in the shadows of her chamber. She felt herself trapped in a room with no door, and all the walls showed etchings of past pain and grief. Electricity was buzzing within her with nowhere to escape, and she thought of tearing herself into little pieces to give it a way out.

She had been accustomed to that feeling, once. When it had been a frequent companion in her day-to-day life. It was one of the reasons she had enjoyed being a bard; she was transferring that energy to something else, tickled by the excitement and danger of the profession. That moment of calm after she had finished a job, when her spirit stood still and the walls were just walls. It was everything. But it never lasted, and soon she would crave the next assignment. Which Marjolaine only too happily supplied.

In Lothering’s chantry, the walls had been replaced by colorful windows. Leliana had been at peace, finally. Balanced, bathed in the light of the Maker. Until the Blight broke out, and darkness quenched the light. She could not,  _ would not _ sit by silently, and praying while people were dying. Not when she knew she was capable of helping, not when she knew it was His wish. Leliana had believed she was chosen. 

The travelling and the trials in the following months kept the energy trapped within her at bay. Only on few occasions did she scream into her pillow when she was alone and her companions were sleeping.

In her love’s company, she had never felt that urge. Leliana had been convinced, and still was, that the surviving group of Grey Wardens had been sent by the Maker. And among the seven, Natia Brosca appeared, as if she was stepping out of a tale into reality, in a dusty tavern and changed everything. The one bright light floating above the chaos of the world, guiding the companions through every maze, and Leliana out of emotional turmoil. In spite of everything that needed to be done, she had made the time to find Marjolaine and stand by her friend’s side.

“ _ I trust Leliana. No matter what you say _ ,” she had said firmly in the face of Marjolaine’s accusations.

Never before had Leliana stood between two people, of which one told her she was worthless, and the other showed her she was not. 

Leliana had been able to calm her racing heart and find strength in the body next to hers. 

Marjolaine had her caught, had her tortured. Made her into discarded inconvenience, a plaything of others. Only now, much later, did Leliana understand that irreparable damages had been done by what she had gone through. The etchings in the walls were permanent, and she would see them regardless of how much light the windows let in. But in the right company, sitting with her in that room and giving her comfort, they faded. Love could do that. 

There was stability to be found in the embrace of her lover, sweetness and care in the kisses Natia planted on Leliana’s cheeks and forehead when they were alone in their tent. Her love helped her accept all sides of herself and not weigh them against each other. The Maker loved the downcasts and the sinful, the wretched and the depraved. With him by her side, she would never turn into what Marjolaine had tried to make her.

Once again she felt at peace. And when the archdemon was defeated, and her love had stumbled away from its side towards her, Leliana had been so sure she had found something that would last.

The Maker had other plans, however. The new Warden-Commander, her friend Jule Tabris, would not accept the price of the Grey Wardens. She had to find a cure, and Natia supported her in this. She was going to help if she could. Leliana was, too. Then, of course, Divine Justinia called on her. And she owed it to her to answer the call. Leliana never intended for her work to go on this long. She was never to be separated from her love for years on end.

She often felt guilty and always wondered of Natia would even want to see her now, after all this time. And now… that goal they’d set seemed close enough to touch. She could barely bring herself to comprehend it. She would be able to send the letter she had written so often in her mind.

_ The Inquisition is coming to an end. Meet me, my love. I am finally coming to you. Nothing will keep us apart.  _

But something kept her from putting the words on paper. 

There was more to do. Nothing had changed from the time she had been sitting in the Chantry’s garden, staring at the rosebush. The world was still in disarray, and she still felt restless at the thought of leaving it to itself. Would the Maker approve? Would Andraste just sit and sip wine with a friend? Remove herself from the problems of the world?

But then sometimes she asked herself: had she not given enough?

“Leliana?” Josephine’s voice was careful, soft.

The spymaster, the bard, the formerly broken stray, looked up. 

“Nothing happened,” Leliana answered truthfully. “My love and I have simply…”

There were no adequate words. She knew anything that could plausibly follow those words would be a lie. And she was loath to lie to her friend.

_ I am scared, _ she could have said.  _ Scared to want something for myself. I am not the woman, the soft girl I used to be. What if my love does not know me anymore? _

_ And what if _ , she could have said,  _ Maker guide me, what if I am meant to give away pieces of myself until I am no more? If I cannot sit still, with all that’s haunting me? _

“I will write her.” She pressed the words out of her mouth as if they were not her own. “I have yet to tell her…-”

_ That I need her to save me again. _


	14. Josephine II

A determined knock pulled Josephine out of her streak of focused writing. She wrinkled her brow a little-

“Yes?” she called.

-and relaxed her face as soon as she saw that it was Lady Lavellan who entered. 

“Your Worship,” Josephine said to greet her. 

“I hope this is not an inopportune moment,” the Inquisitor returned politely as she crossed the room with a stack of documents in her arms. “I wanted to bring you the signed letters in person. And as I recall, you said it would be alright for me to come by before noon. Is that still the case?”

“Of course! Of course, Inquisitor.” She cleared her throat as silently as she could and moved the ink pot and papers around on her desk to make space. For what, she did not know, but it just felt like she should be doing something with her hands while the woman was still walking over. In the process of which she smeared the letter she had been writing to Marquis du Wiscotte. She silently swore to herself and made sure to remember to rewrite it later. But for now, she had other worries. “What can I do for you, Your Worship?” Lady Lavellan placed the signed letters on of the table free spaces and took a seat in the luscious chair across from Josephine. “You said you were in need of a favor?”

“I did,” she nodded, and gave a tiny sigh. 

She blinked, looked down, and Josephine saw the midday sun draw shadows of the elf’s lashes on her cheek. _Oh my._

“I’m not sure how to say this,” Lady Lavellan begann, opening her eyes. She gave her that clear, intense look that left Josephine unable to look elsewhere. “I have come to wonder, lately, where I would stand with the Inquisition disbanded. I have a purpose, I have… options. I am aware that this is fairly late for me to start wondering about, with everything that is already changing. But I was thinking about where I would… stay.

“I have an estate in Kirkwall now, thanks to Varric, but I have grown fond of Orlais and Ferelden. All the time I spent travelling them…” Her voice grew a touch wistful. 

With a clear assignment close at hand, Josephine snapped out of her temporary spell of fogginess and distraction.

“And you would like for an estate in either of those countries, I presume?” she filled in the blanks, and started searching for a blank piece of paper she could take notes on. “That shan’t be a problem, Your Worship, I am sure we can find something tasteful, maybe in Val Royeaux, that will not exceed our current capital. I might have to move some coin around, but certainly some nobles would be honored to give us a favorable price for the chance to sell their estate to the Inquisitor-”

“Not an estate, per se,” Lady Lavellan interrupted Josephine’s furious note-taking. “Not a mansion. Just… a cabin.”

Josephine had already started setting down key-words and names of people to contact, but she halted mid-writing.

“A cabin,” the ambassador repeated in surprise, the quill still in hand. She did not know what to say. “How… I mean-… What specifics did you have in mind for the… cabin?”

The elf in front of her never broke eye contact. Her expression was soft, malleable. 

“I don’t need much,” she explained. “Maybe somebody has a hut for hunting trips that they don’t use as often as they might want. All I need is a small house, about a day’s walk from a village or town where I can have my correspondences sent and buy necessities. A body of water, preferably moving, nearby. A stream, or a river, from which to get fresh water. I don’t need stables, since I don’t plan to keep a horse. But I want an oven. A big one.”

Josephine had trouble processing all this. She could not picture the graceful, polished Lady Lavellan in a hut in the middle of nowhere. What would she be doing all day? Baking bread?

“An oven?”

“Yes. Big enough to to sleep on top of in the winter, and to warm water for baths. And if the house had something akin to a cellar to store things in a cool environment, that would be wonderful.”

The ambassador laid her quill aside and looked at her friend in concern.

The Inquisitor had obviously thought this through to a certain extend. But still… her, alone in the wilds? What if something happened to her? If a beast tore her apart, or an assassin came to end her? Who would know before weeks, or even months had passed? Who would be able to trace what had happened to her, if all clues degraded with the time it took people to find out she was dead or missing?

“Are you… you are certain, Inquisitor?” she asked carefully.

She smiled. “I am.”

Silence hung in Josephine’s office as she thought things over. 

Of course the Inquisitor would not be lost in the woods. She was of the Dalish people, had presumably lived most of her life as a nomad wandering through forests. She had learned how to trek, how to hunt, how to make the most of what she had. Josephine did not question her capabilities to sustain herself in a remote region on her own. But regardless…

“You look worried, Josephine,” Lady Lavellan remarked after a while. 

She failed to find words to express her discomfort.

“I suppose… I don’t understand, Your Worship.”

The Inquisitor turned her face to look through the window. The sun hit her higher-placed features and illuminated them. The straight bridge of her nose, its tip, her cheekbones over which the vallaslin curved, her brow, her small chin. The heart-shaped cupid’s bow of her upper lip.

“I guess I just need a place to retreat to for a little while,” she said. Her voice sounded wistful again. “Wherever I go, be it Denerim to join Sera and her Red Jennies, or Kirkwall’s Hightown and then mingle with the nobility…” The elf turned her gaze back on her. “I will be among people that I don’t think I belong to,” she finally said. 

If she was being honest, Josephine could see her point. She tried picturing Lady Lavellan at a social gathering of Kirkwall’s nobility, enjoying herself, but she couldn’t. Then she imagined Lady Lavellan jumping over rooftops and laying traps for depraved people. And as exciting as that picture was, she still couldn’t see the Inquisitor be happy with that. At least not for long. But those two couldn’t be her only options, could they?

“But what would you be doing, in that cabin?” she asked, looking at the paper under her hands. “One day’s walk from any civilization?”

Lady Lavellan shrugged. 

“Read,” she prompted airily. “Plant crops, hunt, practice my combat techniques. Swim in the river, lay nude in the sunshine, sleep next to a golden halla?”

A blush crept up Josephine’s neck and chest. Now that did not sound as intimidating as what she had pictured earlier when the Inquisitor had said _cabin_. In fact, it sounded quite romantic. 

“I will look into it,” Josephine promised, trying to keep her voice as even as possible. She directed her eyes down on the paper and scribbled furiously to avoid betraying her thoughts. “Cabin, oven, river, cellar, one day’s walk from a village or town. I will initiate contact with nobles that are known to hunt as soon as possible.” 

She cleared her throat again, when a thought hit her. It was a sensitive one, and she wondered how it had not occurred to her sooner. Josephine raised her head.

“Inquisitor,” she said with hesitation. Lady Lavellan’s eyes widened as she waited for the question. “What about your clan? You were planning to visit them, I heard.”

The other woman’s lips parted, and she sat up straight. Where there had been the hint of a playful smile, there was now a touch of resignation.

“Visit, yes. But I have no intention to stay with them.” 

A question unasked hung between them. Lady Lavellan sighed deeply, raising her hand to play with the rings adorning the shell of her ear. She was staring at the heavy wooden desk in front of her for a moment. 

Josephine folded her hands over one another, waiting. It was obvious to her that this topic was no easy one to discuss for her friend, and so she remained silent, but ready to give out compassion at the drop of a hat.

“I don’t- I don’t know what to do with myself,” Lavellan finally confessed, sounding agitated. “I have not lived among my kind for a long time. A lot of things have happened, I have put a lot of work into… into fitting in. With you, with... everybody. Into being... “ She sighed again, although now it sounded like a growl. She dropped her hand and looked at the woman sitting opposite from her. “I don’t know… without my Faith… I don’t know if I can even rightly consider myself Dalish anymore.”

Josephine opened her mouth to speak, but then closed again. There was no polite answer to this, and she had no reply. 

She was not Dalish herself. She wasn’t even elven. And so she could not say what constituted the particular Dalish identity, or being Dalish as a whole. All she knew that in front of her was a woman who had been ripped from the life she had known, thrown into a place in the world that was singular, been expected to cope with things she had never had any idea of, in an environment that was foreign to her. And now, that unique place in the world would no longer be needed, would be eradicated, and all the skills and all the development of the recent years were… what? For naught? That could not be.

A fiercely passionate part of Josephine longed to invite her friend to to join her in Antiva, so that she could look out for her. Make sure she would never feel out of place in the world she had put so much blood into saving. Remind her that she would always have a friend in her, would always be safe, loved. Accepted as she was, aside from politics and a religion that demanded her to take on one role or another. They would travel through Antiva, delight in the beautiful scenery. Eat in lovely little bistros and enjoy the Antivan cuisine. Visit the opera, read books side by side in beautiful gardens, go to prominent artists’ exhibitions. The vision had Josephine’s heart jump up to her throat. There was nothing she longed for as greedily in this moment as she did for this to come true.

“Inquisitor,” she choked out, feeling like a dam about to split open. 

But she looked at her friend, and her heart sank. 

Amaryll Lavellan. Her ashen hair was half pulled back, shining pale and cold. Her slim and hooded eyes, tinted in that dull and dusty green. Unassuming eyes, but looking out so earnestly on the world. Cheekbones pronounced and accentuated by the vallaslin climbing up her temples. Her nose, not slim, but perfectly centering the face. Her lips, not thin, not thick, but alluring in shape and width. A strong chin, a defined jaw, retracting from the softness of her cheeks. Her ears, long and curved, a red jewel earring sitting in each of her lobes, below several silver rings. 

It was difficult for Josephine to believe that at first upon the Herald entrance into the Inquisition, she had hardly seen or acknowledged the woman. And now, just the thought of spending time with her outside of work and impending doom made her throat close up with want. That night at the opera in Halamshiral had been the most wonderful time. She had not been able to cope with how lucky she had been to spend an evening with her friend, wishing later in bed she could go back to the afternoon and relive it again. She’d lain her own fingers where Lavellan had touched her over the course of the evening, and then afterwards where she _dreamed_ the other woman would touch her.

“I didn’t mean to put this on you, Josephine. I apologize,” Lady Lavellan said after what felt like an eternity of silence between them. She moved as if to stand up and leave, clearly thinking that she had made Josephine uncomfortable by sharing her thoughts.

“No, don’t!” Josephine said quickly. “Please.” She breathed in, out. “Please.”

The Inquisitor drew her brows close together, and sat back down, waiting, while Josephine gathered her wits.

“You are what is in your heart, Inquisitor,” she was able to say at last, the palms of her hands facing upwards. She looked upon her friend, reaching out with her words and her eyes as if to gently touch her. Silently screaming her feelings at the woman, willing her to understand Josephine’s heart. “And you are, without a doubt, a good woman. You have been kind and graceful in your dealings with others whenever you could. You have helped friends and strangers in need alike. You have led this organization to success. And I… I think… that is something no one can take away from you.” 

There. There it was.

Lady Lavellan’s expression softened immeasurably. There was a tender affection, a pull in her eyes that made Josephine feel like she could die this instant. Her breath hitched when Amaryll leaned forward and reached out, placed her hand on Josephine’s. 

“You are always so good to me, Josephine,” she said softly, low. “You do so much. How often do people ask you how you are? Whether you need help?” The ambassador’s mouth dried out in panic, her tongue went numb. A mistake. She had committed a terrible mistake. “There is nothing that happened at the Exalted Council that I regret more than the distress it caused you. It pained me to see you like that. You have carried the Inquisition to heights that nobody could have predicted, and you do not get near enough praise for it. Please know that no matter where life takes us, I will always let you know how to reach me. And should you ever find yourself in need of help, I will be there. Regardless of where I am or what I am doing. It may be the only thing I can do to repay you.”

She wanted to swallow. She could not. She wanted to blink. She could not. She wanted to scream. She could not. 

All she could do was rip her hand from under Amaryll’s, abruptly spring to her feet and run. 

  
  


Amaryll stood up after the ambassador had so suddenly jumped from her seat. She was confused, taken aback.

“Josephine!” she called, but the other woman had already left for the Main Hall.

Just as she moved to follow the ambassador to find out what she had done wrong, Leliana stepped in the room. 

Amaryll had never been truly afraid of the Inquisition’s spymaster, in spite of the stories and the worried whispers. As a Dalish elf, she had not heard of all the things that had happened under Divine Justinia’s left hand. Nor had she cared. She had come to respect Leliana based only on how she had experienced her after their first meeting, had been in awe of her methods. 

But this was the first time she was really, truly frightened.

“I have asked you, Inquisitor,” she said slowly, walking towards Amaryll. She sounded tense, deliberately contained, dark. “-to treat Josephine with kindness. You have danced on that line again and again. And now you have stepped over it. I will not ask again. When you have something to discuss with Lady Montilyet, it will in the future go through messengers, and me. You will _not_ be alone with her. You will _not_ be paying her compliments. You will _not_ be asking favors of her. You will _not_ play with her feelings. And this will be the last warning you shall receive. Is that _understood_?” 

All words were wiped from Amaryll’s memory. And so she could not do anything but nod. 

“Good,” Leliana said, decreasing the tension in her tone. “Good day, Inquisitor.”

And with that, she spun around on the spot and walked out. Leaving the stunned Inquisitor stand where she was. 


	15. Amaryll II

Hawke arrived back at her estate after a productive evening turned into a fun one. Serious as it started out with visiting Annabelle, two ales in Varric, Iphemriel and her were having a good time at the Hanged Man. 

She had almost forgotten how much of a difference it made to share a drink with friends every once in a while. Still, remembering those who she used to spend several nights a week with put a heavy weight on her heart when she was walking through Kirkwall’s quiet streets. Hawke had insisted on making it back to her estate instead of staying at the Hanged Man, but she started feeling a familiar pit in her belly.

With every face that her mind wandered to, the pit deepened. Who was she missing the most?

Isabela, with her haughty laughter, her sharp laughter, or her soft one? The sparks that flew from her eyes when she saw herself reflected in a piece of jewellery? 

Fenris, who used to be so very quiet, but eventually started bringing more and more life to a simple game of Wicked Grace? Whose looks could be so gentle, his humor dry and warm at once.

Anders… oh Anders. There’d been no rest for him, not ever, back in the day. He’d been either working in the clinic, working towards Mage Freedom, or working with Hawke to make Kirkwall’s streets safer. Or running, perpetually running, never stopping, always going, doing- 

But there’d be respite, during those evenings when they’d all held cards in their hands and talked about everything and nothing at once. Or during the mornings after he’d moved in, lazy mornings filled with lazy kisses and cheeks pressed on soft flesh. Some mornings were still like that. 

Merrill was still here, but she certainly had changed. Varric was back in Kirkwall for good, but even he’d returned with some cracks. He’d rarely talk about his time with the Inquisition. Aveline… was ever the same. Which was reassuring in some ways, but infuriating in others.

No, the thing Hawke missed the most was to have them all together. All around the same table, and she knew, just felt it in her gut, that time would turn back and all of them would unexpectedly get along the way they used to. Regardless of what’d happened in the time inbetween, regardless of ideological differences. 

Marian just missed her friends so damn much.

When Hawke arrived on her mansion’s doorstep, she was sobered both physically and emotionally. A part of her was relieved to be back in place that she’d called home for so long, yet another knew that it wasn’t what it used to be anymore. Not to her, not to who she considered family, and not in general.

After her return to Kirkwall, she had scraped together her funds to have the two cabins on the Wounded Coast built. One was to be a refuge, a home, to her and Anders. Close enough to Kirkwall to be there within a day’s walk, yet far enough to be relatively safe from nosy templars or City Guard. The second cabin was for Anders, specifically - a clinic. 

After work on both was finished, it was an easy thing to find somebody trustworthy who remembered the mage from Darktown differently than most people in Hightown; who would be willing to take money and a cart, drive the sick and frail out to the Wounded Coast once every other week, and deny all knowledge of such activities. Having the Varric’s backing on this helped, especially now that he was Viscount. With his fingers in the Carta and the Coterie, this charitable enterprise was one of the smaller transgressions anyways.

A good thing it was that there were plenty of other fronts where he was visibly philanthropic. Such as when Hawke converted her mansion into an orphanage and part-time school. 

This had taken a while, but it was one of the best decisions she felt she had ever made. The mansion was too big, too hard-fought for, to stand empty. And her living there without Anders was unthinkable. 

So, instead of having dust collect on the furniture, Hawke did what she had wanted to do since she met Evelina’s foster children: she opened an orphanage. And what better building to use than her mansion with all its empty rooms, generous library, and proximity to pissed off nobles? 

Another project was the actual school in Lowtown. Three days a week, Tanya taught letters and numbers to children whose families could spare them for a few hours. They were taught history, read different stories, made to solve mathematical problems, and given assignments for the rest of the week. Every now and then, representatives of different guilds came in against a financial compensation and talked about their trade, what it took, and brought things to demonstrate their day’s work. 

The other three days, Tanya was busy teaching the children in the Hightown Orphanage the very same things. And on the remaining day, she was free to do as she wished. 

All of this was what Hawke had been busy with ever since she returned from Weisshaupt. Not only rebuilding the city that she had poured so much blood into, but trying to make it into somethingeven stronger.Even better. A united front against whatever the world may throw at it, so that it may never again bow to tyrants or be torn apart by conflicts that would be forced upon it. 

Only now it almost felt as it once had… 

Hawke didn’t need a light to lock the door behind her, the movements were second nature to her. Only after she’d unbuckled her boots in darkness and gotten ready to put them on the rack that they belonged on, did she finally conjure a bobbing light in the entrance way. 

Immediately she knew that there was something wrong. 

Dusty boot prints, large ones, defaced the red carpet of her home. 

Hawke carefully walked through the hallway, reaching for the staff she was still carrying on her back. The door to the main hall was closed for some reason, and she took a moment to ready herself. She sent a prayer up to Andraste that Tanya and the children were alright, then raised her hand to pull the door open. 

What she would find inside was both better and worse than she’d hoped for. 

Amaryll was sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, surrounded by books, when she heard the knock. 

“Come in,” she called out without looking up. It was only a few more sentences until she would be finished with the paragraph; a good place for an interruption.

It was late in the day, she had already had dinner and was now simply killing time before she felt it was time to go to bed. It was unusual, but did happen every now and then that messengers came to find her. Lately by Cullen in particular.

The Commander often worked late into the night and as a result sent messengers with this information or that. Replies were often returned with her explicit orders for him to lay work down for the day and rest, even though she was well aware that his bouts of late-night productivity were oftentimes connected to a particularly bad spell of pains. Over the past two weeks, this had become a common occurrence and Commander Cullen was making a very worn impression. His complexion grew pale and greyer, a slump that was there not so much physically as mentally, and a straining in his voice when he explained things at the war table. 

Amaryll suspected that sleep was difficult at the heights of his chronic pain, and that this was the reason he sometimes would omit it in order to spare himself the frustration. But she figured that lack of rest, and overworking himself, couldn’t possibly be a solution. Sometimes the Commander needed a little push to take care of himself. He did have the tendency to use his struggles to - what looked like - punish himself. For what, Amaryll did not ask. She had a vague idea, but felt it best not to delve into that pit of snakes. 

This, however, was not one of Cullen’s messengers. Which Amaryll realized as soon as the person that was walking up the stairs to her quarters spoke.

“Your Worship?”

At once the Inquisitor untangled her legs from their crossed position and sprung onto her feet, which in turn had the two books on her lap tumble onto the carpet. She looked at Josephine, who had just stepped on the floor, still holding on to the railing. The Antivan was flustered, wringing her hands while she was approaching Amaryll. She wasn’t looking at her, but more so kept her eyes on the carpet with an air of caution, even when she finally came to a halt several feet away from the Inquisitor.

Amaryll fished for words to say. There were too many. And seconds passed without her settling on any of them. 

Josephine lifted her gaze to meet hers.

“Inquisitor, I am sorry to disturb you at such a late hour,” she began. “But I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other day. It was not becoming of me to run off like that. The impression that must have left on you…”

“You don’t have to apologize, Jo-” _Leliana will kill you with her own two hands_.“Lady Ambassador.” Josephine, of course, picked up on the sudden change, and Amaryll could tell by the fleeting expression on her face that it was not one she liked. “I was worried...“ 

Shit. 

“I never meant to make you uncomfortable,” she finally said. 

“Oh no, you mustn’t think that, Your Worship,” Josephine shot back passionately, her eyes wide open, and took a few steps towards her. She seemed to realize that she was verging on dangerous territory again, and in an instant regained composure.

Fuck. What a mess.

“Inquisitor…” she began. But as if her speech was failing her, she broke off and left the sentence hanging mid-air.

Amaryll had no idea as to what Josephine wanted to tell her, and so she knew not how to help push the conversation forward.

“Are you sure it is a good idea, coming here?” she said jokingly. “Leliana will know. She may tear my head clean off my shoulders when she finds out.”

A wrinkle appeared between Josephine’s eyebrows. “She will not dare. This matter does not concern her, and I am perfectly capable of handling my own business. In spite of… what it may look like.”

“Nobody would doubt that,” Amaryll replied gently. “You are known to be a very capable woman.”

By the twist in Josephine’s face she knew she had said something wrong again. 

_You will not be paying her compliments_ , she heard Leliana hiss in her ear. Oh well. It was out now. Nothing she could do about that, except for tempering her tongue in the future.

A breeze carried in from the open balcony doors, driving the curtains to slap against the wall. 

“What can I do for you, Lady Ambassador?” Amaryll asked. She kept her voice even, still gentle, but she made sure not to put too much weight on any particular word. She would be damned if she made Josephine upset again.

The Antivan hesitated.

“I came to apologize to you,” she started from the top, as if she was rewriting a letter that she’d found a mistake in. She was avoiding eye contact again, staring at her feet. Humble, solemn. Stern. “My sudden departure was far from gracious, or professional. I am sorry to have had you see such an emotional outburst on my part. The end of this project… it is more to me than I have previously assumed. I did not mean to burden you with that. I hope you can forgive me, Your Worship.”

Josephine looked up. There was so much to read in her expression. It was overflowing with emotions, and it reminded Amaryll of when she was a child. A little outside of her clan’s camp, staring up at the bottom of the trees’ crowns, the way the light broke through the green and yellow leaves, turning, spinning, spinning on the spot until the individual pieces of what she saw blended together and she got sick. 

What could she possibly say?

“Of course, Lady Montilyet. You have nothing to worry about, I didn’t mind. I’m glad to see you’re doing better now.”If you need someone to talk to, my door is always open, Josephine. 

Josephine nodded, then hesitated. 

“There is another matter at hand that I would like to discuss with you, Your Worship. A favor as it were. Regarding Leliana.”

Amaryll tried to suppress any surprise in her face. “Yes?”

Josephine’s lips opened, closed. Opened. “I would like to contact a Grey Warden who is with the Hero of Ferelden on her behalf. Leliana, she… seems reluctant to let her love know of the end of the Inquisition. I fear she is standing in the way of her own happiness. And so I would like to contact the Hero and let her know, that- that-”

Creators. Amaryll didn’t think that the ambassador had properly thought this one through. She heavily doubted that Leliana would appreciate this intrusion into her love life, and especially if she knew Amaryll was involved in this. 

“There might be a good reason that Leliana has not contacted her lover just yet,” she suggested carefully.

Josephine kept her silence for a moment, and her eyelashes fluttered.

“We don’t know their relationship,” Amaryll added after waiting a little while. “Meddling in it may not be the best idea. It’s possible we would do more damage than good.”

The ambassadors look shot up to her and startled the other woman.

“Leliana thinks herself a ghost,” she said firmly. “That she can see everyone and interpret their behaviors, but that she herself is elusive. That is not so. I know her well, even if she never considers it.I knowshe loves the Warden, andI knowthat she is scared to get in touch with her. She fears the Warden might not feel the same about her after learning of how different she has become, but Leliana is still Leliana. I knew her then and I know her now. There is still some of her old self tucked away inside of her. And if the Warden doesn’t see it, then she’s- then she’s-” A hue of redness appeared on her golden complexion. “Then she is not as smart as the stories say she is,” she finished forcefully, looking slightly embarrassed. 

“And then it’s better Leliana knows sooner than later,” Amaryll continued. “And if Leliana is wrong, and her Warden still loves her the same, then it is better for her to start her new life with her in it.”

Neither of the women spoke. They just looked at each other from across the room, silently. Josephine had a look on her face… She flexed her fingers, slightly raised her tense shoulders, let them drop. And Amaryll suddenly remembered that she ought to breathe. She tried to communicate a silent apology to the other woman without having to breach the topic that was hanging in the air.

“I will be able to look through Leliana’s records of all correspondences the Inquisition has had, and maybe find a hint as to what middleman she has used to contact the Hero of Ferelden,” Josephine dropped into the room. “All I need is your permission to use the Inquisition seal and resources, Your Worship.”

“You have permission. And I would gladly lend my time to be the messenger, if you are unsure that one of the Inquisition might warn Leliana.”

Josephine nodded, looking relieved, and then took a step backwards, then another. “Good night, Inquisitor.” She turned around to leave and walked down the first few steps before she remembered something. “Oh, Your Worship? I think I found a suitable cabin for you. We are as of now in negotiations over it. As soon as things are settled, I shall let you know, and send a detailed descriptions in a few days.”

“Thank you, Jo- ah. Lady Ambassador. I appreciate your efforts, and your discretion in this. I hope you will be able to rest well tonight.”

“Thank you, Your Worship.”

And then she was gone, and Amaryll felt as though all colors had been drained from the room. 


	16. Amaryll III

It was the type of spring day that conjured memories of summer when one was standing in the sunshine, but stripped them away when one stepped back into the shade. It would have been a lovely day on all accounts, perfect to be spent reading in the herbal garden, riding outside of Skyhold, or simply standing out on a balcony and letting the sun’s rays caress one’s face. That was what most people left in the fortress were doing were doing, at any rate, now that the sun stood high in the sky and rendered most of Skyhold restless.

The moving gears of the Inquisition’s head, however, did not take advantage of the spring weather; they were in the War Room, as they had been hundreds of times while the world outside kept going.

“Work in the mines and quarries has been halted until negotiations with Orlais are concluded,” Cullen read off his list.

“An accord can be reached in a week’s time, I believe,” Josephine supplemented.

“Excellent work. Next on the agenda…”

“Word about the Inquisition’s dissolution has reached Griffon Keep,” Leliana said. “They acknowledge it and ask what to do next.”

The Inquisitor considered the question for a moment. 

“I was thinking they should wait for reinforcements from the Orlesian troop, then head for Suledin Keep. By the time they arrive, we should have a batch of their release letters and compensation sent there. And they will have had time to think on what they want to do afterwards. Objections?” she asked and laid her hand onto the table. Her left arm she carefully and very consciously kept at her side, almost hidden.

“That should do, Inquisitor,” Leliana confirmed. She looked to Josephine and Cullen, waiting for any additions and objections, but she was met with simple nodding. Where Josephine’s was alert and cordial, Cullen’s was… almost listless. The hallows around his eyes seemed darker than usual, and in spite of his armor he sat hunched over; he was clearly in more pain than usual. 

“Very well,” Leliana sighed, “Speaking of Suledin Keep, Chancellor Géroux sent word ahead. He shall be arriving in a within a few days.”

“It shall be interesting to meet the man with whom we have exchanged so many letters,” Josephine remarked with a tentative smile. 

“He is coming with word from the Divine regarding Suledin Keep, isn’t he?”

"Yes, though I gather you will not like it,” said Leliana.

Amaryll inhaled deeply, pulling her elbow on the table closer to her torso. 

“Baron Desjardins also sent his regards,” Josephine threw in. “He extended his judgement that the Orlesian crown will likely not be willing to give Suledin Keep to the College of Enchanters. Therefore we very much stand before the same problem we did a few weeks ago.”

Leliana pulled her shoulders back, though the composed expression she held on her face never wavered. Amaryll, on the other hand, propped up her hand, rested her jaw on it and suppressed yet another sigh. 

“Unfortunate,” she said after a while. 

“But to be expected,” Leliana added.

“True,” Amaryll conceded dejectedly.

There was no detectable note of reproach or disdain in her dealings with the Inquisitor. On all accounts it was as though their spat had never happened. But there was a flash in her eyes, every now and then, or a subtle note in her tone that suggested a certain…  _ joie maligne _ , as the Orlesians might say. Amaryll wasn’t sure if Josephine picked up on it, and she was certain that Cullen wouldn’t in his current state. Yet she was absolutely certain that it was there, that she wasn’t imagining it.

The war room rang with heavy silence for a while. 

“The College won’t like this.” Amaryll lifted her cheek off her hand and leaned back in her chair. “And they cannot stay here. There has been _another_ argument between the one of them and a Chantry sister who recently arrived. I will talk to them later and see if we can’t come up with another solution.”

Leliana had already opened her mouth, but before she could make another suggestion for the problem at hand, the Commander straightened his back.

“I don’t understand why we are going through the trouble of making all those inquiries,” he said, voice ringing through the room. 

It was Josephine who first jumped to appease the man while the other two were still trying to formulate proper responses.

“Commander, these mages are vulnerable and living under our roof-”

“If they are so vulnerable and unable to provide for themselves, perhaps they shouldn’t have founded the College of Enchanters,” he cut her off curtly. 

Despite their cool current relationship, Leliana and Amaryll traded a look. That look had passed between them ever so often when the Commander took it upon himself to comment on issues of mage rights. The spymaster’s usually so neutral face, for a second, showed what she really thought about it.

“May I remind you,” Amaryll directed at him with deliberate calm, “that these people are in such a vulnerable position because of us? Because we freed them and housed them over two years?”

“Freedom means means bearing the consequences for your actions, taking responsibility for your own path,” he retorted heatedly. 

“And may I remind you further,” Amaryll interjected, this time with more force, “that they are also in their currently vulnerable position because of _your_ Divine and her war on them up until a year ago? The College could have very well left Skyhold for good by now, were it not for that. The least we can offer them is to make a handful of inquiries. We have done the same for our soldiers, our merchants, our craftsmen. Why not the mages?”

The elf stared him down until his stubbled jaw slackened and he lowered his eyes. For just a second, Amaryll let herself close her eyes before she opened them again and let go of the bitter taste in her mouth. It didn’t fade completely, but it was a start. 

“Alright,” she said, looking to the two advisors to her right. “I will go talk to Enchanter Perth later today about the situation. What else is there that needs to be discussed?”

There was a shifting of papers. In the meantime, Amaryll’s eyes quickly shot towards the Commander who was still sitting there as though none of this had anything to do with him. He was staring at the papers and reports spread in front of him, but didn’t appear to be seeing anything. She almost felt bad for him. 

“There is… one thing, your Worship,” Josephine said reluctantly after some further inspection of the papers in her hand. For perhaps the first time since the meeting started she looked into Amaryll’s face. Her expression was one that spoke of… pity?

Amaryll kept her own as neutral as possible as she met the Ambassador’s gaze and nodded as a gesture for her to go on. 

“Well,” she continued. “A letter from the vice chancellor in Val Royeaux reached me this morning and it spoke of erecting… a statue.”

“What kind of a statue?”

“Of you. In our upper courtyard.”

Amaryll’s lips parted and her face went blank.

A light snickering escaped Leliana.”You cannot be surprised, Inquisitor. It was only a matter of time until someone would try to immortalize you.”

The other woman turned to her, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, well. Wouldn’t a painting that had a vague resemblance to me be enough? Does it have to be statue? How tall is it supposed to be anyways?”

Josephine consulted the letter. “Roughly sixteen feet, Your Worship.” 

“Six-” Amaryll pressed her lips together. “In the upper courtyard? Where our soldiers train?”

“They won’t be training there for much longer, Inquisitor,” Josephine reminded her gently, and Amaryll sank a bit into herself.

“Right, of course. But still. A sixteen feet tall slob of stone-”

“Marble.”

“Marb-”

“You surprise me, my lady,” Leliana smiled. “I would have thought you would be pleased.”

The look of mild horror Amaryll gave her almost endeared the Spymaster to her again. Almost.

“I’m afraid this is something you will simply have to live with, my lady,” Josephine said. 

Amaryll buried her fingers in her hair at the back of her head, slumping against the chair. “Beautiful,” she said toneless.

“I’m sure it will be, Your Worship,” Josephine said, and earned a guarded smile before the other woman averted her eyes and straightened her spine again.

Amaryll cleared her throat and placed both her elbows on the table. “Well. Thank you for the warning, anyways. I appreciate it. Is there anything on anyone else’s agenda for today?” Silence. “Alright, then. In that case I say we conclude this meeting. Ambassador, you have the negotiations with Orlais to contend with. Lady Nightingale, I trust you are still fully occupied with training your replacements. Should either of you think of another possible solution to the College’s problem, you let me know as soon as possible. Commander - there are yet more letters to be signed. Dismissed.”

  
  


*

  
  


_ My love,  _

_ I hope this letter finds you well. I hope you’re being good to yourself, and that Deliah is taking good care of you. These past two weeks without you have been very long. _

_ Things in the city have gone from bad to worse. I am safe, as always. But the same cannot be said for elves in the Alienage, or the orphanage. _

_ My school in Lowtown was completely ransacked last night. The perpetrators destroyed books and utensils, even chairs and tables weren’t safe. They picked the lock to get in and then smashed every single window from the inside. Destruction was the only thing on their minds.  _

_ I can’t make a single step outside of the city for fear that they will come after the orphans next. Men already have broken in and did something similar here, while I was at the Hanged Man, three nights ago. Books that were ripped apart in the library, red paint smeared on the wall, telling us, or telling me, to get out. Nobody was harmed, Maker be praised. Tanya woke up when the ruckus started and came out to check on the children once they left.  _

_ Aveline thinks that these attacks may show that we are making headway in our investigation. Varric says if that were the case, they would have gone for Merrill’s home first. For now, he has moved them all to the Viscount’s Keep.  _

_ I don’t know what to think, my love. Perhaps this was an isolated incident by someone who is angry at the new policies, but can’t strike out at Varric.  _

_ What I do know is that things have gotten even more personal. I cannot come home while I am needed here, even though I miss you dearly. Know that I love you more than words can express.  _

_ Furthermore, please stay vigilant. I believe our home to be safer for you right now than Kirkwall would be, but its location is an open secret. Please send word. Circumstances are growing more dire, and I need to know that you’re safe. We need to decide our next steps.  _

_ I love you. _

_ Yours truly,  _

_ M.Hawke _


	17. Cullen I

_ Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless, hopeless, _ he thought. 

_ Helpless, helpless, helpless _ , it echoed back to him. 

He couldn’t handle it anymore, couldn’t stand it. 

Cullen knew that there had been a time when it was better, when there wasn’t a silent enemy raging through his body. But that memory rang hollow when he was laying in his bed, sweat-soaked and freezing, shaking, after his attempted afternoon nap. Rest wouldn’t come. Not last night, not just now, and likely not later.

This was one of the worst spells of sickness in a while. Not only in intensity, but in duration. Usually, he could rely on the bad days to be limited to one, up to three, and then the one following it would be more bearable. But this time, after the third night, he awoke knowing he was in trouble.

At first Cullen had grit his teeth and hoped this would last for only one additional day. He had hoped for the same the following morning. And the one after that. And the one following that one. By that point, he thought it might never end.

This had been weeks ago. Since then, every hour of every day, and every hour of every night had been a struggle.

Cullen was both grateful and desperately angry that the end of the Inquisition meant less work for him. On one hand, his body and mind ran at limited capacities. There was no way for him to take on more responsibilities or tasks beyond the most basic ones. Not without cracking. But on the other hand it also resulted in little distraction from the splitting headaches; the dull, radiating pains in different areas of his back; the cramping; the tremors in his arms and legs. His thoughts kept wandering to different remedies, of which the allowed ones were useless and the useful ones were forbidden. 

The worst part of it was how familiar it all felt. As though he had never made the progress that he had permitted himself to be so proud of. As though, by a cruel joke, he had been set back years to the point where he had only just started to try and better himself. 

There was no hope. No recovery, Cullen thought. How could he encourage others to take his path to free themselves of the Chantry, and promise betterment, when he himself was a small, tiny pile of misery. A disgrace.

The commander moaned and turned onto his side in an attempt to relieve his back’s screaming. It worked, for just a second. It felt better. Until it didn’t anymore, and he tried to understand if this level of pain was more tolerable or less tolerable than the previous one. 

This pondering did not occupy his thoughts for long, however. The turning had set off a bout of nausea, and so he reached for the empty tankard by his bed. Another groan, this time out of frustration. Emptiness in his stomach meant that there was nothing to leave it, either. Which had him realize that he hadn’t eaten since midday yesterday. Precisely because he thought he’d be able to curb the nausea by not giving his stomach anything to be upset by. _He_ _regretted this decision now._

_ Helpless, helpless, helpless. Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless. _

The mabari whined from below, high and long. Whether it was because he felt his owner’s misery and sympathized, or because he needed to lift a leg, Cullen couldn’t tell. He wanted to let his new companion out. It was late in the day now, and it looked like Cullen was unable to do anything to entertain to dog. He ought to let him out, roam around. He really ought to. He just didn’t know how he would manage that if he could barely roll over without getting dizzy.

As if sent by the Maker, there was a knock on the door, and Cullen could hear the blunt claws of the mabari scrape over the stone floor as he hurried towards it. The commander should have been displeased that the visitor dared enter without waiting for an invitation, but he was too tired. Too tired, and too relieved to hear the as of yet nameless dog yip in excitement at the new person to entertain him and scratch his enormous head. The visitor spoke to him in a low voice, and at first Cullen wasn’t sure he recognized it. Only when the dog eventually ran out of the stuffy tower and the visitor raised her voice did he realize who’d made her way here. 

“Cullen?”

“Up here,” he replied and twitched at how ragged those words came out of his mouth.

“May I come up?”

He hesitated. 

“I am not… decent.”

“Oh.” Cassandra fell silent for a moment, then cleared her throat. “I just came across the Inquisitor who claimed you had missed another war council.”

Cullen groaned. As slow as he possibly could, he pushed his legs forward, over the edge of his bed. After having accomplished this, he propped himself up onto his lower arm, and finally up into a seated position.

Everything went black for a moment. 

“Cullen?” Cassandra’s shout made her voice sound deeper than it usually did, and it was tinted with worry.

“A moment,” the Commander of the Inquisition called out. 

He wasn’t sure what’d caused the woman’s concern. It might’ve been simply that his reply had taken too long, or that he had unintentionally made a pained noise during his short period of unconsciousness. Either way he was still sitting up. But he did not dare reach for his boots, and so he would have to receive the Seeker in his dirty smalls. 

“You can come up.”

Cassandra immediately took to work. He was slightly envious of how fast she reached the top - nowadays it took him at least twice as long.

He straightened his back (which hurt), but by the quick dilation of Cassandra’s eyelids he knew that she saw the truth of the situation. This woman had no poker face. But neither did he, according to Josephine and Varric, so there was that.

When she finally stood tall before him, neither of them had words. It was clear why Cullen had been unable to attend the war council, and it was clear why few people had seen him around Skyhold as of late. If Cullen were the humorous type, he might have had a joke on his lips. If Cassandra were, she would have had an icebreaker. But as it were, they just shared a room face to face, thinking the same thing. 

“Perhaps the healers could-”

“They can’t.”

Cassandra drew in her eyebrows. Whether it was out of frustration with his stubbornness, or because she was contemplating other solutions was unclear. 

“Lady Josephine might-”

“That would not help me now.”

“Well, what would?” Cassandra asked, more into the general room than at him.

Cullen sighed, his shoulders dropped forward.

“I don’t know,” he breathed. Suppressing the growing despair that tried to creep into his voice. “It has been… too long. It is not getting better. I’m at my wits’ end. I cannot eat, and I cannot go hungry. I cannot stay upright, but laying down pains me as well.” Tears pricked in his eyes, and his cheeks twitched in the effort to keep composure, to show stoicism. He failed. He failed at everything he ever tried, and he was too exhausted to feel shame at showing weakness. “Cassandra… I think I’m dying. I can’t stand it, not for another minute. It is killing me-”

_ Pathetic.  _

Cullen buried his face in his hands. Hot breath wet against his palms. Real and tangible, it kept him in the Here and Now. It was so easy to slip, he felt. 

_ Pathetic. _

But there was also something else. Gloved hands gently pressing on his knees. He dropped his arms and saw Cassandra kneeling in front of him, looking up with genuine concern and empathy. It all the more made him feel like crying. 

“Cullen. I am sorry that you are going through this. It, too, shall end, Maker willing. There have been harder things that you have come out of, and this is no different.”

“I was a stronger man then.”

“You are strong  _ now _ . Right in this moment, you are being strong. Do not give up on yourself. Andraste watches over you.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” he whispered.

The Seeker fell quiet once again. Faith was not easily debated, at least not by her. The Venerable Sisters and Mothers that kept taking residence in Skyhold would have uplifting words, phrases and promises. Cassandra on the other hand simply felt things in her gut. The intensity in her emotions as she thought in silence was tangible, and he could feel how fiercely she wanted to transfer some of her Faith onto him to make up for what he was missing. 

A deep sadness took hold of him in that moment. He was so close to what he had had a few weeks ago. It was close enough to touch, radiating off the Seeker. But it was like standing next to a fireplace when you’d just walked in the snow. The cliff between those two things felt unsurmountable. 

“You will not die,” Cassandra finally said forcefully. “You  _ will _ not. You have not lived this long to give up. If you will not hold on for anything else, then do it for spite. This will pass. And you will be better for it. You have not survived all you did to go to the Maker’s side now. He is not done with you yet. I know it. And you will, too.”

Cullen closed his eyes, breathed. Then laid his hand on Cassandra’s. For the first time in days, he felt calm. She was right. This would find an end either way. He just had to let it happen.

When he opened his eyes, Cassandra was still looking at him. And so he offered her a small smile, which she returned. Now certain that he felt a little better, she rose to her feet.

“I will have the kitchen send you some stew. And pray at the chapel. Join me there later if you are able. It would do you well to leave this room for a while, my friend.”

“I will do my best.”

Cassandra nodded, then turned to descend the latter, when a thought struck the Commander.

“Did the Inquisitor say what the war council discussed?”

Cassandra paused. The expression on her face changed from relaxed to slightly tense. A small wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows, which indicated disapproval.

“The Inquisitor asked me to let you know that she will not be available for the coming week. She is leaving Skyhold for… some time on her own.”

Cullen shifted his position, which his back immediately punished him for. It was like being stabbed in four highly sensitive spots at once, and the pain travelled. Shivers went up the man’s spine, and a slight tingling through his extremities.

“Is that- is that wise?” he asked, thinking of her disability.

“No, it is not,” Cassandra spit. “Which is perhaps why she decided to have Rainier accompany her.”

“Rainier?”

He processed the contradiction for a second, along with Cassandra’s obvious bitterness.

“I’m sure her Worship didn’t mean it as an insult to you,” Cullen said in a soothing tone. “She might have thought you too busy with your current task-”

“Do not speak to me like I am a child,” she interrupted. 

Cassandra stared back at him stubbornly, but after a moment averted her gaze. 

“Her oversight is her loss,” Cullen finally amended. “I am certain that she will regret it. There is no doubt that you are the more capable warrior between you two.”

“That is not true.” Her harsh tone however did nothing to mask the pink that spread on her cheeks and nose.

Cullen smiled gently, which caused the Seeker to press her lips together in what seemed like disapproval. 

“You just… you just take care of yourself. Maker watch over you, my friend,” she pressed out and resumed her climb downwards. As soon as he heard her boots hit the stone floor, there was another, lower sound. Had he not paid attention, he might have missed it. “Thank you.”

The smile on Cullen’s face broadened.

He had always wondered how some people, like Varric, like Lavellan, had gone through their time in the Inquisition with forming so many connections. Cullen himself always felt like he was a little bit afloat. Always working, or keeping away so as to not taint other people with his misery. Even on his best days. 

But Cassandra… he was proud to be on such good terms with her. Proud that he had been able to maintain the friendship, and proud that Cassandra felt him worthy of calling him a friend. She may not always be able to understand his jumbled emotions and struggles, but she understood hardship, endurance, and Faith. She was an anchor of certainty to the people who were thrashed around by storms. 

Cullen would miss her the most when it was going to be time to leave Skyhold for good, of that he was sure.

  
  



	18. Merrill III

Merrill suppressed a small sigh when her gaze trailed to the basket full of treats that was sitting a few feet away under the vhenadahl. Her stomach complained at the sight with a deep, insistent growl, and a few of the younger children who were sitting on the blankets around her giggled.

Soon. Soon she could end the lessons, hand out a few of the sticky buns to the children and then have one herself. One - or a couple. Yes, probably a couple.

Just over a dozen had shown up this week. Ever since the streak of blood had started snaking through the Alienage, parents were more and more concerned about letting their children out unsupervised. Merrill had offered to come by their houses to pick up the children and bring them to class, but in the end there had been so many that she would have been walking for more than three hours all over the Alienage before the tutoring even started. 

It wasn’t perfect, and she understood the parents’ anxiety. But Merrill was nevertheless grateful that so many of the kids had come to study under the vhenadahl today; it took her mind off things. 

She threw a small smile to Dennem, Katerina and Johan, who were all still grinning up to her, and gestured them to focus on the assignment in front of them. She then turned her attention back to the young girl she was kneeling next to. 

“No, you see - goodness, don’t cry, please- this is where you miscounted. If you do it again, I’m sure you’ll get it right.” 

She hadn’t noticed Iphemriel stepping to the group, quietly greeting a few of the kids and rubbing the palm of his hand over Sylaine’s hair, one of his daughters. 

“See- no harm done, and you got the right result, too!” 

Teddy, a pale girl with straw colored hair, wiped her hand over her puffy little face. She was no older than five and got frustrated easily, but her ability to memorize details -and hold others to them- was second to none. 

“Good job, Teddy!”

“Thank you, Serah,” the girl sniffed. 

Merrill caught sight of the first few parents shoring around the edge of the group and gracefully came back onto her feet. The students had been getting distracted for about a half hour now, and with another glance towards the basket, Merrill decided to call it a day. She thanked the children for coming to the study group, elaborated on the assignments she hoped they would complete until their next session, and offered the sticky buns to her students. 

The group dissolved into lively chatter. Almost every child got their hands on one of the treats, with the exception of Elayna, Iphemriel’s eldest daughter.

While the other parents and children were enjoying the chance to casually socialize with one another, the two were tangled in a seemingly serious discussion. Merrill stopped picking up and folding the blankets on the ground and instead went to observing the thirteen-year old’s intense facial expressions, the way her father used his broad hands to underline a point. It wasn’t any of her business, but knowing that he had been investigating with Hawke earlier today, she couldn’t help feel the itch of curiosity.

From the periphery she saw Teddy’s father paying attention to her, letting his gaze bounce between Iphemriel and her.

Goodness, she was staring, wasn’t she? 

Merrill turned to the basket on the bench. Immediately her stomach reminded her of what was important: food. And, Creators be blessed, there were still two of the sugary baked goods left. Fewer than she had hoped, but just enough to still her hunger. Merrill reached for one of them and held it under her nose. It smelled mouth-watering. Heavy and sweet. 

“Serah-”

She turned on the spot, anxious to simply  _ eat in peace _ , when she realized that it’d been Iphemriel who’d asked for her. The rogue had walked over  _ fast _ . He faced her, a slight smile playing about his thin lips, the wrinkles around his eyes more pronounced than usual. He seemed to still have trouble deciding on how to properly address her, even though she told him she preferred him to use her name.

“Aneth’Ara, Iphemriel,” she greeted him and regretfully lowered her hand with the bun. “You and Hawke went to see Master Anton, didn’t you? What did you learn?”

Slowly, the smile disappeared and Merrill was almost sorry to see it go. 

“Aydin disappeared a good two months ago,” Iphemriel recounted without delay. “Master Anton helped search for the boy but came up empty-handed. That much you knew. We found out, however, that he has continued taking the city’s money for the apprentice program.”

Just as Merrill had decided that she had time to take a bite out of her lunch, she forgot about it. 

“Well, that is no crime. A little dishonest, I suppose.” She thought for a moment, looking at Iphemriel’s tan face. “And he hasn’t asked for another apprentice, has he?”

Iphemriel’s brow knitted to match hers. “No. Needless to say, the Champion was not enamoured with this man. But like you said, it is hardly his fault that nobody followed up.”

His tone was reasonable, but there was an edge to his voice that caught Merrill’s attention.

“But that’s not all,” she prompted. 

For a moment, Iphemriel pressed his lips together. 

“I do not like this man, Serah,” he finally said. “He is… I can’t quite explain-”

Elayna stepped from behind Iphemriel, and he immediately interrupted himself. Their conversation from earlier was picked up quietly via their gazes. Merrill shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” she asked. 

It was Elayna who replied, voice serious and stern. “There’s trouble with the Forest, Serah,” she said solemnly, her brows drawn together. 

Her father laid a hand on her bony shoulder. “I think this is something Serah Alerion and I should talk about, don’t you think? Say goodbye to the others and pick up Sylaine, will you?”

The girl’s brows furrowed even closer as she threw him a look full of distaste. There was no argument, however, she only stared at her father for a moment longer. Having made sure that he knew what she thought of his order, she then stalked off with her head held high. 

A deep, resonant sigh left Iphemriel. 

“Excuse Elayna,” he said. “She thinks because she can handle more pain without breaking that she is a grown-up. She doesn’t realize that she shouldn’t have to carry all that she does in the first place. But she doesn’t want to be a child for much longer… argh.”

He’d turned to look at his daughters in the distance. Sylaine, eight years of age, was in a very animated conversation with Teddy and a boy her own age. It didn’t last much longer, however. Sylaine smacked the boy, Philip, on the arm rather roughly and ran off laughing. Without a moment’s hesitation, Philip and Teddy charged after her while Elayna yelled something after her sister. She remained where she was, however, standing by herself, and on her face Merrill could see an expression that she found hard to read. Someone more skilled at reading faces might have described it as conflicted. 

“What was that about the Forest?” she asked Iphemriel. 

The Forest was the Alienage’s younger graveyard. Much as the humans wanted to be separated from elves in life, the same was true in death as well. Which was just as well, Merrill supposed. It left some room for those with Dalish roots to practice their own rites to a certain extent. One of those rites, in some clans, was to plant a sapling in honor of a dearly departed. This practice had gained much popularity after Kirkwall’s Civil War seven years ago; too many lives were lost, too high the body count to fit them all into the Alienage’s already existing graveyard. And so seedlings were raised, saplings planted in an area where the destroyed Chantry’s debris had near demolished several houses. Though it had been names a forest, it it had little in common with the ones Merrill grew up roaming. 

“I don’t know if you’ve heard already,” he said as he turned back towards her. “The girls and I went there this morning. I’ll make it short, Merrill. It was clear that shemlen had been there. They’ve trampled the grass, painted the trees red, up-earthed fresh saplings. They didn’t go so far as to fell or torch the trees, but the point was clear.”

Merrill stilled as his words echoed in her head. 

_ Anger, _ she thought darkly.  _ They want us bitter and angry. Ready to lash out and defend ourselves, ready to die over it. Next time they may not stop with paint.  _

“Somebody is trying to provoke us,” she said slowly. “We can’t let them. This has to end before it can start.”

Iphemriel visibly froze. His posture was rigid, his shoulders raised. 

“Those are  _ sacred _ grounds,” he finally pushed out, clearly upset. “I can’t believe…”

His eyes fell shut for a moment, and Merrill’s shoulders lowered as she remembered that Iphemriel was a widower. Him and the girls had probably gone to visit his wife’s tree, to leave a token of remembrance for her spirit. To see what they saw, the burial grounds defaced… it must’ve been painful.

But there it was. Beliefs, fiery and fanatical, hurting those who had the least to do with it. It was almost scary how familiar this was becoming, the uncertainty of what the next day would bring. For the past few years things had been relatively peaceful. It seemed danger and blood had a habit of ebbing and flowing like the sea.

Merrill stepped closer to the man in front of her, reached for his arm for a quick squeeze.

“I’m so sorry, Iphemriel. Was your wife’s grave disturbed?”

His eyelids flew open. 

“No,” he said, somewhat more composed, but sounding tired. “Though others were not as fortunate. I spread the word among those we saw on our way back, and found a few people who’ll help me clean up the mess. I just wish Elayna and Sylaise hadn’t seen it, that’s all.”

It explained the older girl’s grumpiness at being sent away for this conversation; of course she was upset over this as well. 

“One more reason to put a stop to this.” Merrill’s lips opened, closed, opened. “Can you use another pair of hands?” she then asked. “I reckon I’ve gotten quite good at cleaning up other people’s messes. I could help.”

This drew a smile from the somber man. 

“I reckon you have,” he replied with a soft smile. “But I couldn’t ask that of you. You’re already doing so much, teaching the children, chasing the murderer-”

“I’ll help,” Merrill interrupted decisively. “It’ll be quicker the more people help. I’ll ask around to see who else can spare a few hours. We’ll meet in front of the Forest, tomorrow after breakfast.”

The smile on Iphemriel’s lips gained depth. Behind him, Elayna and her little sister came closer.

“As you say, Serah.”

Merrill nodded and finally, finally took a bite out of her sticky bun. 

Against all expectations, and the feeling of dread that usually accompanied her from the moment she woke up in the morning, this so far had turned out to be not too bad of a day. 

Whichever way the world was breaking apart, however bad things got, reaching out, offering help, a kind word, or mercy, made a difference. It mattered. 

Merrill had always believed in that. She still did.

  
  
  



	19. Thom & Amaryll I

_ Your Most Honorable Lord Viscount Tethras,  _

_ Skyhold misses you dearly, and so do I.  _

_ I wanted to thank you again for the generous gifts you have made me the last time we saw each other. I know you are not comfortable with shows of emotion, but I do want to get one thing off my chest:  _

_ This means more to me than I could ever explain. Home to me was always where my loved ones were. Not a place to stay. Even Skyhold I had to leave more times than I’m sure either of us would care to count.  _

_ So to be offered my own estate… a place that someone who cared about me picked to be my home... It is overwhelming. I am fortunate that home, in the future, might become both: a place to stay, and a place where I am close to my loved ones. Or at least one loved one (that person being you. Are you crying yet?). _

_ You are one of the most thoughtful people that I have ever had the pleasure to call my friend. I am incredibly lucky to have you look out for me, even (and especially) when I wasn’t able to do that for myself.  _

_ Our goodbye was brief and stiff, I regret that. I wish I could have told you this in person. Here’s to calmer, more peaceful times where things make sense.  _

_ Though the way I know you, you might have already picked up another hero-to-be that will drag you into messy adventures. Just be sure it’s someone who isn’t going to go up against Qunari again. I think you have seen more than enough Qunari in your time. _

_ Know that I cherish you, and that I am looking forward to seeing you again soon. Wrapping things up here will be taking about a month longer than expected, but then I will certainly be coming to Kirkwall before visiting my clan. _

_ Take care of yourself, my friend.  _

_ Amaryll _

  
  
  
  


Amaryll and Rainier’s horses were patiently trodding down the road down the Frostback Mountains. Road might’ve been too generous a word, it was closer to an icy dirt path. Luckily, however, it was littered with little stones that prevented the Fereldan horses from slipping and injuring themselves. Still, all of them were cautiously quiet for as long as it took to reach the mountain’s foot; the only sounds were those of the crunching of hooves meeting stone, and strong winds racing between the raised structures. 

“Oh, finally,” Amaryll sighed into the wool scarf she’d wrapped around her head as protection against the winds. Trusting of her horse, she let go of the reigns and started loosening the fabric. The first trees appeared in the canyon below them. “I swear I am never happier to see trees than I am when we come down this road,” she said, now that her mouth was no longer obstructed.

“Eh,” Rainier replied, muffled by his helmet. “I still think it’s better seeing woods when we’ve been trekking through the damned desert for weeks on end.”

“Mhm. That one’s right up there, too. I’m guessing you’ll keep clear of the Western Approach and Hissing Wastes once you’ll leave?”

Amaryll gave him a smile that held a hint of teasing; he never turned his head to see it, and so she dropped it when she saw the warrior shift uncomfortably in his saddle. Maybe it was just the memory of the unlucky experiences he’d had there, but she sensed a change in mood. Something like… concern?

“You’re damned right I will,” he replied after a short hesitation and finally met her eye. All but his eyes and brow was covered, but there was enough warmth in his gaze to put Amaryll at ease again. “Say, have you spent some more time thinking on what you’ll do once… once the Inquisition ends?”

The Inquisitor nodded. “I’ve got a plan. Or at least for the next few weeks. I will be going to back to the Free Marches. Stay in Kirkwall for a little while, then visit my clan. And after, who knows? Maybe I’ll be neck deep in some sort of trouble again. I hear Kirkwall and trouble go together like the Storm Coast and wet firewood.”

Rainier chuckled. “Then I wager you’ll fit right in.”

“Probably,” Amaryll grinned and directed her gaze forwards. The road ahead was growing more flat with each passing step, the air around them a bit warmer, more fragrant. By the scent she could tell that it must’ve rained down in the valley not two days ago, and a wistful mood grabbed hold of her. “Though I’m not sure what I’d be doing there. With the estate Varric granted me, I’m now technically a comtesse. Josephine offered to file a petition to elevate me to proper nobility. Even with all that’s happened at the Exalted Council she believes that Orlais still holds the Inquisition in some regard.”

Rainier let out a grunt of ambiguous approval. “Why not skip a few steps and make you queen?” 

Amaryll snorted at his dry joke. “And what a queen I would make. I’d rather fight another dragon.” When she continued, her voice turned a bit more solemn again. “I declined. I… wouldn’t want to inconvenience Josephine more than necessary. Besides, I like Orlais, but I think I’ve got enough of Orlesian politics for a while. A lifetime.”

“She’s got some pretty corners,” Rainier agreed warmly. 

“Orlais or Josephine?” The woman shot within a heartbeat, grinning broadly at the mild disapproval Rainier beamed at her. 

Teasing him about his affection for the ambassador, especially when it was putting less than innocent words about her in his mouth, was not something he took to kindly. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t fun every once in a while. 

“Remember the first time we went to the Emerald Graves?” Amaryll asked as a way to drop the joke, and Rainier immediately forgave her the little stab.

“How could I forget. The trees…”

“The smell of moss,” she added.

“How bright all the colors were. Felt like it would burn your eyes right outta your skull with the way the sunlight was shining through the leaves.”

“The chittering of nugs and birds. And the halla everywhere.”

“The statues and fallen fortresses,” Rainier finished.

Rocking up and down on their horses, helmed and not, they smiled at each other for a little while. A slow, genuine, blissful smile. It didn’t last, however, and they returned their gazes back on what was ahead. Amaryll took lead in the curve that was coming up. Once they were both more or less on a similar height again (not truly, since Amaryll was tiny by every standard except from Dwarven), she took it as an opportunity to share some news. 

“Speaking of Josephine, there’s some changes. Her and Leliana requested that we push the Inquisition’s disbanding back by a month. Looks like we’re not going anywhere just yet.”

Again, with the discomfort. By now Amaryll was becoming uneasy with the warrior’s helmet. Rainier had been looking at her, but at her last sentence she noticed his eyes growing wider, him gripping his broad, gloved hand tighter around the reins and then averting his gaze. Hiding his thoughts.

What in  the void’s name was that?

There was something he was thinking, but not saying. Something she would not like to hear. Did she do something wrong? 

“How come?” Rainier interrupted her racing mind.

The Inquisitor shoved her scattered composure back into one piece. Her voice sounded ineffectual and light, in spite of the sense of danger that was lurking in her thoughts.

“Well, Cullen, I think, is mostly done with everything. The Inquisition’s forces aren’t much to speak of anymore. But Leliana is still training her replacements, and Josephine has unfinished business. There are promises that need to be kept still. Two months is not enough to dismantle a large organization, apparently. I wasn’t exactly in the right state to make a big decision like that after Halamshiral.”

Something in Rainier’s demeanor perked up. 

“Do you regret the decision you made?” he asked. 

The decis- 

Amaryll almost fell off her horse.“Elgar’nan, no! No, I just couldn’t rightly judge how long it would take to do this. That’s what I meant.” Her breath got caught in her throat for a second. “Why? Do you think I made a mistake?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But?” she drilled.

“Jus’ asking.”

Amaryll had no reply to that brush-off, so she simply scrutinized his profile as they rode on. This was not in character for the man who usually spoke his mind regardless of hurt feelings.

“You’re concerned,” she proclaimed after a while. “You looked at me that way when you insisted on coming with, and again earlier. What is it you’re not telling me?”

Rainier’s shoulders had slacked a bit, the same they did with everyone who stayed in the same position for a few minutes. When hearing the Inquisitor’s pointed question, he straightened his back, however. 

“I was hoping to tell you this when we made camp-”

“Tell me now.”

Annoyed at being pushed, the soldier threw her a look so dark that Amaryll sucked her cheeks in, but she held his gaze with trained determination.

“I’m already seated,” she said drily. “How bad can it be?”

Rainier held his tongue at the veiled stab she’d made at his previous big secret. He said nothing else for a while. Perhaps to let her stew a bit for having been harsh, or perhaps because this wasn’t easy for him. This time, Amaryll let him be. 

They rode on, side by side, now having reached the valley.

“I…”

Rainier stopped. His voice was solemn and dark in a way that conjured pictures from a time when Amaryll knew him by another name. When he was closed off and serious at all times. When every words that he let out of his mouth was deep and carried sadness. He hadn’t sounded like that in a long while, and now it made frost gather in Amaryll’s bones. Feeling the stiffness in his rider’s posture, the horse now fell out of rhythm with her. 

“I was thinking of leaving Skyhold this coming week,” he finally said. 

“Oh?”

“I didn’t know the Inquisition would go on for another month-”

The meaning dawned on Amaryll, and she unwillingly halted her horse. It took Rainier a few seconds until he noticed and turned his as well.

“Oh,” Amaryll repeated.

It was foolish. Foolish, to feel an abyss open in her mind. Of course he would eventually leave, they all would. Where had she gotten off just assuming Rainier would stay until the very end, waving her goodbye with a white lace kerchief in his hand as she rode out of Skyhold’s gates into an uncertain future? What a stupid, stupid thought. 

She had asked him a few times what he would like to do after his time with the Inquisition, and had always gotten a vague answer that mirrored hers. Travelling, helping people. For all the lack of specificity, Amaryll had just assumed that he would stay until the end, would follow her steps until then as he had in the past two and a half years. 

_ Stupid, silly woman _ . 

“So suddenly?” How she managed to wring those words out of herself, she didn’t know. Was her voice breaking? It felt like it might.

Whatever roughness there had been in Thom Rainier’s demeanor earlier was gone now. He steered his horse closer to hers, and perhaps it was that she seemed so obviously upset that caused his face to take on the softness it did. Softness in his blue eyes, his brow, his cheeks. She’d always loved the compassion he had. 

“I thought of staying,” he began explaining. “But I want to remember the Inquisition the way it was, not the way it’s ending.”

“It’s changing.”

“That it is. All of the Orlesian nobles smugly talking about its end. And all of the Chantry folk chanting and preaching at all hours of the day, in every corner of Skyhold. It’s not what you- what all of us made it, back in the day. I don’t like seeing it plucked apart and examined for its best parts like a corpse. Did you hear that they will be building a statue of you and Andraste side by side in the upper courtyard?”

“What? Of  _ Andraste _ and I?” Amaryll shouted and stretched her legs, lifting herself off the saddle for a moment. “I never asked them to!”

“I guessed as much, my lady. But they are. The Inquisition used to be a haven for people who wanted to help and had nowhere else to go. All help was welcome, no matter how small the person giving it. Now, nobles and Divine Victoria are turning it into a snake pit filled with gold. I would leave remembering the Inquisition’s legacy, rather than its pitiful end.”

It was like a blow to the head. Amaryll tucked in her chin, looked down on her horses back and pressed her heels to its sides to ride on. Past him. 

“Inquisitor-”

_ Pitiful _ . 

He hadn’t meant it that way. She knew it. Knew that word had not been directed at her. But did not feel it. 

_ Foolish to be hurt. Stupid. Pitiful Herald. _

“My lady-”

Amaryll pretended that the fast-paced clacking of hooves on stone drowned out her friend’s appeal. She needed to regain her composure, and fast. It was easier when she was surrounded by people she didn’t care about, listening to veiled insults that could not touch her. This had caught her off guard.

When Rainier pulled up to her she saw that he’d removed his helped and placed it on the saddle’s horn. 

“Amaryll.” 

It was not a plea. Not the beginning of something he was about to say, not the last word of something already said. It was him asking her to speak, to say anything. Reassurance and affection laid in the many wrinkles of his face.

Her lips parted, closed. Parted. 

“I understand,” she finally said, gently. 

“I can stay, should you require me,” Rainier offered.

Amaryll gave him a smile that was both somewhat mocking and genuine.

“No,” she said with insistence. “I heard you. And I understand. You have given the Inquisition more blood and time than most. You deserve to choose when you leave, Thom. After this last mission you will be relieved from service.” 

She pressed her lips together, looking at Rainier, and he looked back at her. Silently, as if he were waiting for something more, and her smile from earlier returned, broader and brighter.

“As the Inquisitor I want to congratulate you on and thank you for your years of service with us. You have helped to shape the world into what it is now, for better or worse. Through Mage-Templar conflicts, corrupted Wardens, demons, darkspawn and Qunari. You have been a voice for compassion and diplomacy when a situation allowed it, and you pressed for action when it was necessary.”

This time it was Rainier who unwittingly stopped his horse. He stared at Amaryll, clear-eyed and solemn, as she halted and turned similar to the way he had earlier. 

“As the Inquisitor,” Amaryll continued, “I couldn’t have wished for a better man to watch my back. As a friend, I can say that I value you above all others. I never expected us to become as close as we did. But I am glad for it. You have my loyalty, Thom. Always.”

Silence held its own between them. A moment passed, then a minute.

“Thom?” Amaryll asked uncomfortably. 

It was almost as if he’d left his own body for a little while. But Rainier returned, and his lips twisted in a way that Amaryll couldn’t read.

“It was an honor, Inquisitor,” he finally said, his voice grave as ever. But to Amaryll’s relief, with none of the darkness. The smile he gifted her was as warm as could be. “You are a formidable leader and woman.”

Perhaps there were better ways to react to such a statement, but Amaryll’s way was to snort.

“Am I now?” she said, mocking herself more than anything else, and guided her horse to continue on their original path.

“To me you are.”

Rainier urged his horse to walk and he ended up overtaking the Inquisitor, who was sitting there speechless, for once. Her own steed was getting restless from the incessant stopping and starting. It lifted its front leg, first the one, then the other in anticipation of a command before it would decide that its rider was not taking the lead anymore.

“Shall we ride on?” Rainier suggested lightly over his shoulder, and Amaryll regained her senses. Or at least some of them.

They rode next to each other in silence again, as if the heavy moment had depleted all the words they’d saved for each other on their way down to the valley. They had finally more or less left the Frostbacks behind. It had taken almost a full day of stern travel, but they were officially on Fereldan ground and in an area where making up camp would be easier. There was no longer a rush, nor the necessity to be focused. Yet still the two did not talk for a long time, and simply spent time being present with one another. At least until Amaryll had a thought she felt worth sharing.

“Is there anything you need?” she asked out of nowhere.

“Aside from a tavern and a hot soup, you mean?”

Amaryll pulled a grimace at him, since he knew full well that there was no village nearby and they would have to spend their night in their tent.

“No, I mean- a new blade? An upgrade for your shield or armor?” she persisted.

Rainier furrowed his brows at her.

“The ones you had crafted for us at the Winter Palace are excellent. What brought this on?”

Amaryll pressed her left lower arm onto her thigh, fumbled with the reins in her right hand. 

“I won’t have the same access to the resources I do now for much longer,” she explained, looking forward. “If you need anything… well. Best to make use of it now. There’s not much else I could give when you go your way.”

She pulled up one corner of her mouth when she met his eyes, and Rainier understood.

“It’s not your wealth I like about you, my lady,” he said warmly. “A kind word when we part would be enough for me.”

Amaryll pushed the hint of a resigned chuckle out of her mouth. This was the second time today that he had left her feeling flustered, and that was not something she was used to. She wondered how and why the man had so suddenly picked up tone and charm from way back in Haven when they’d both barely known one other. It had been easy to flirt, back then. There had been compliments and teasing, but was before… before Haven was buried. Before she accepted her position. Ever since then, those things had entirely ceased from his side. Probably out of a sense of propriety and duty.

“You can’t keep saying these things, Rainier. I won’t know what to do with myself,” she admonished him half in jest.

“I suppose that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

He playfully picked up speed and threw her a long look as he rode past, his deep-set eyes surrounded by laugh lines. In the meantime, Amaryll was hanging back, and a thin veil of rose laid down across her cheeks and high nose. 

She wasn’t sure what was going on with Rainier, but she sure didn’t mind it. 


	20. Thom & Amaryll  II

They reached the inn on the third day of their journey, just as the last bit of daylight disappeared behind a thick blanket of towering grey clouds. Amaryll gave the stable girl, Hanna, a pretty coin to look after their horses, and earned herself a gap-toothed grin in return. 

“They’ll be as snug as a nug on a rug, me lady,” was Hanna’s promise.

Reassured, Rainier and the Inquisitor took the saddlebags off their mounts and marched around the building to the tavern’s entrance. A heady scent hung in the charged air, promising rain. And rain did come, only a moments before the travellers reached the sign that announced the  _ Flying Swan Inn _ . 

The inside felt just as stuffy as the outside, though in a slightly more comforting way. The air was used but filled with warmth and the smell of smoke, food, and candlewax. 

“There’s no table free,” Rainier murmured from behind her when they came to a halt in the entrance area. “Business must be going well.”

Amaryll sighed. “Too bad for us, I was looking forward to sit on something not horse-shaped for a little while. Oh well. Might as well ask for a room now and bring our stuff there before we eat. What do you say?”

Rainier opened his mouth to reply when the innkeep approached them, a guarded look on his face. He was an older human man who introduced himself as Halbert and kept talking to Rainier instead of Amaryll, even if it was she who answered his questions. 

Yes, they could see that the inn was crowded, that was fine. They mainly wanted a room anyways. A hot meal, too, and a bath if possible. Yes, they would pay a sovereign more for that. And oh- they had a letter for him. 

“I weren’t told of any letters,” he said almost immediately, and the Inquisitor realized that they had forgotten to consider hurdles Leliana might have put in place to block imitators. 

“Neither were we,” she replied with a sigh and tilted her chin downwards whilst keeping her eye on Halbert’s face. “Until two days ago. I was asked to ride as fast as I could, and here I am.”

The innkeep cast a doubtful look on Rainier, who did his best to seem indifferent as any bodyguard would be. 

“So what’s this message that needs to people to deliver?”

“A bit of privacy, perhaps?” Amaryll retorted with a nod to the full tavern. 

Halbert pulled one corner of his mouth to show his distaste. But just as the Inquisitor started to wonder if Josephine had indeed looked up the correct contact information, the innkeep motioned her to follow him. He led her across the room towards a staircase, up towards the second level and to a room that he unlocked with a key that was attached to his belt. 

“Come in - not him.”

Rainier visibly bristled, his chest blowing up a little. He was a about to respond with something that would no doubt be noble, when the Inquisitor gestured him to keep his calm. She nodded at Halbert and pulled the infamous letter from one of the saddlebags she carried before placing it down by Rainier. She then followed Halbert into the room. 

Thom put his own down with the other bag and bent his knees a little, keeping his hand on the hilt of his sword and his ears open for anything suspicious. 

He listened for thumping sounds, surprised exclamations, anything. Smells of the kitchen wafted round his nose, the murmur of both idle and excited conversations pooled below. 

After what felt like and eternity, the Inquisitor emerged with the inkeep in tow, smiling assuredly, and Thom straightened his back. Relieved that whatever had to happen went over without complications. 

“We have a room for the night,” she informed him.

“If ye will follow me,” Halbert said behind her. 

And so follow they did. Down the stairs, to the right through the assembly of tables, through a door into a hallway marked by several more doors. Halbert led them up another staircase to a room that lay a bit more secluded, and unlocked its door with yet another key from his belt. 

“Here ye go,” he said to Thom, looking straight over the elf’s head, and handed him the key. 

The smile on Lady Lavellan’s face grew a bit strained; she only let herself exhale audibly after Thom accepted the key with a “thank you” and Halbert left. 

“I take it you didn’t let him know who he was hosting?” Thom asked as he pushed past her to open the door.

“Why should I?” she replied. “Who’s to say he would even believe me? Anyways, better not to attract too much attention.”

“In case Sister Nightingale finds out?”

“She will find out either way. Halbert promised not to tell, but I have no doubt in my mind that he will send a bird to Leliana first thing to confirm my story. By then the letter will hopefully be on its way to the Warden.”

Lavellan kept talking after they’d entered the room, about food and baths she had arranged for their lodgings, but Thom was distracted. There must’ve been a mistake in the room assignment, because all he saw was one double bed. Surely she did not think to share it? Which meant that he would have to sleep on the floor. It didn’t sound like Lady Lavellan to not ask for a room with two beds, unless-

Thom let out an almost imperceptible, sharp exhale.

“What is it?” Lady Lavellan asked without missing a beat.

“Nothing a hot meal and an ale won’t fix,” he reassured her quickly and placed the saddle bags by a lonely chair next to a wardrobe. 

Her lips formed into a broad grin. 

“Let’s see to it that you have both, my friend.”

  
  
  


Eventually, Thom and the Lady Inquisitor found a spot in the inn’s main room where they could delight in the establishment’s delicacies, such as overcooked deer with seasonal vegetables and a healthy portion of mealy potatoes. Lavellan didn’t utter a single word of complaint, but she did scoop her serving of meat onto Thom’s plate. When her fork was about to skewer one of his potatoes, he blocked it with his own. 

“What’s that?” he jokingly berated her. “I don’t believe I gave you permission to steal, my lady.”

The woman bent forward, leaning on her left underarm, and captured Thom’s eye with an intense fox-like grin. Before he was any the wiser, her fork had snapped over his plate and back to her mouth, into which she plopped the piece of vegetable. 

“Not bad,” he remarked with a chuckle. “In- ah, my lady. I should know better than to contest you for what you want.”

The only response Lady Lavellan gave was a tilting of her head, as tough she was going to say something but decided against it. 

“I’ve told you there’s no need to call me that,” she finally said.

Their friendly little spat drew the attention of the group of men who shared their long table. Amused by the display, all of them fell into a conversation about travelling, destinations, and news on the road. It turned out that the fellows were all on their way to a wedding of a family member, and thus in a jolly mood. They almost immediately invited the two strangers to a round of cards, which Thom all too happily accepted. Lavellan, however, politely excused herself when the meal was mostly finished, saying she would like to get some rest and take the bath she’d been promised. As she rose from her chair, Thom’s gaze fell upon the stump on her left arm.

“Do you need help?” he offered without thinking. 

Lavellan stopped in her tracks, just as she was about to push her chair back towards the table. 

“Help... bathing?” she asked slowly. 

The mischievous gleam from earlier returned to her pale green eyes, and for a moment Thom felt as embarrassed as a young man would. One of the men next to them snickered. When his eyes flickered to her missing hand, Lavellan’s suggestive grin died down.

“Thank you, Rainier, but I think I got it covered,” she said kindly. “I’m not a complete invalid, you know.”

“No, of course not, my lady.”

This time she didn’t complain about his formal way of addressing her. She simply shook her head, then directed her gaze to the group of men.

“Gentlemen,” the Inquisitor said, inclincing her head a bit. “Have a good night.”

Thom wondered whether he’d committed a misstep somehow, but as she passed behind his chair she turned to give his shoulder a quick squeeze. And so he took up the cards offered by his new dinner companions and pushed his plate to the side. It didn’t take long however, until his thoughts started toppling over each other again. 

She’d wanted to travel alone. If he hadn't happened to come back to the lower courtyard at just the right moment, the Inquisitor would have rode out of Skyhold on her own. A trip, almost a week’s worth, all by herself with no protection other than a dagger and her recently acquired skills wielding it. Which were, to be quite frank, mediocre. 

There had been a fear sliding through his belly, visceral, slick and cold, when he had inquired as to her plans and heard her explain them. Lady Lavellan hadn’t travelled alone in a good three years. And for some reason, her doing so now drove the fear of the Maker into Thom. That, as well as the memory of her in her dirty nightgown, ragged and devoid of any sense, barely able to hold herself up.

It was a picture not easily forgotten, and it once again haunted him as he sat here with strangers, enjoying the rainy evening with some ale and good company while his charge was by herself in the quarters, doing Maker knows what. 

_ Bathing _ , he told himself.  _ She is enjoying a soak, getting cleaned up after the days on the road. _

Then why was his gut filled with ice again? What could possibly go wrong? Why did he see wisps of blonde hair flowing in dim water, obstructing a lifeless face below the surface? 

It was bollocks. There was no reason to suspect any such inclination in Lady Lavellan.

But once he’d pictured it, it wouldn’t let him go. And so, after a few rounds, Thom excused himself from the card game as well. 

Stomping up the stairs to the second floor he wondered if this was to be it. Perpetually worried for Lavellan. He’d already caught himself reconsidering his leaving the Inquisition. It hadn’t been an easy decision to make, but he made it so that he wouldn’t linger beyond what was healthy. If he didn’t leave the Inquisition soon, he might never be able to let it go. As it stood now, however, he wondered if this was not a selfish part of him talking. 

What if Lavellan still needed him? Shouldn’t he stay?

_ I’m not a complete invalid, you know _ ?

Yet he couldn’t help but waiting. Waiting for proof that she would be alright. Waiting for her to show him that she wouldn’t simply fall apart as soon as the Inquisition dissolved. It wouldn’t be his fault, he knew. But there was something that made him want to protect Lady Lavellan beyond his duty to watch her back in batte.

He closed the door behind him just as the second one in their room opened and the short woman came in, dripping and wrapped in a large towel. A host of different emotions flickered over her face until she settled on a relaxed smile, her shoulders lowered. 

“Oh, hello. You’re a sight for sore eyes. I thought you’d be gone longer,” she said jovially, coming to a halt. 

It took him a moment to assess her, to make sure she was alright. Only then did he feel he could let go of the tension he held in his back. She looked alive and well, if a bit taken aback. 

“Eh, those bastards were going to take me for all I’m worth,” he replied lightly. “Better to leave while i still had shoes worth losing.”

Lavellan chuckled, her lashes fluttering downwards. She then started sauntered past him to the wardrobe next to which one of their saddlebags was still on the chair. Thom stepped to the side to make room for her and decided it’d be best if he didn’t stand around staring at her like a fool. He suddenly felt his earlier fears unjustified. Luckily, Lavellan seemed to not have picked up on his anxiety; while she grabbed a fresh set of clothes and retreated back to the other room to get dressed, Thom unpacked some of his whittling tools. 

“Tub will be ready in about a half hour, the maid said,” Lady Lavellan reported when she came back, now dressed in Dalish leggins and a loose brown linen shirt. 

Thom had taken a seat on the second chair, positioned right between the standing mirror and another short dresser. While he was waiting he’d started work on another piece of wood. He was not rightly sure what it would turn into, only that he wanted it to be an animal. Perhaps a cow, or a goat. Lavellan, in the meantime, sat down on left lower edge of the bed, facing the diagonally in the corner placed mirror. 

Thom didn’t need to look up from what his hands were doing to feel her presence, her movements. He deliberately tried not to. To prove to himself, and to her, that his attention did not need to be affixed to her.

It was a stupid challenge that he forgot as soon as he did look up. 

Lavellan had combed her damp hair until it lay flat to her skull. She swept the entirety of it to the right side, sectioned off the front and lifted her left arm to drape the strands over it. Next, she parted the rest and stuck the back section in her armpit. This way now she had three different sections, of which she took the middle one and laid it over the third one, effectively switching their places. The next maneuver took a bit of finesse, as Lavellan now grabbed the front section that still lay over her lifted arm and tried to sweep it under the mid one. One of them however, was not tightly enough secured and slipped out of her fingers, loosening the entire work she had done so far. The furrowing between her brows and the rigid stare in the mirror in front of her spoke of great frustration, and only then did she notice Thom looking at her. Meeting his eye, her expression immediately lost some of its tension.

“I’m still practicing,” she said with an apologetic smile, as though this display had in some way inconvenienced him. 

“You’re getting there.”

“Perhaps in a few weeks, I hope. I don’t want to rely on Mara to do my hair for much longer than I have to.”

Thom let out a soft exhale and stood up from his comfortable seat on the armchair. Without much prelude he placed his whittling knife and the block of wood on the dresser next to him and made his way to sit himself behind Lavellan on the bed, his left leg angled with his ankle under his right thigh.

“You can rely on some people,” he said as he reached around her to grab for the brush on her lap.

Gooseflesh immediately started spreading up her arms and back, making making her shudder.

Amaryll didn’t know if Rainier had noticed, but a part of her hoped he had. Hoped that her thoughts would lay bare for him, even if he could not see her face. He’d always been good with these things. But for now, that seemed to not be the case. 

His broad fingers carefully combed through the tangles in her damp hair, before he parted the crown of it into three sections and got to work. It took a little bit of tugging and starting over, but eventually it was smooth sailing. They sat in the slowly darkening room with the rain outside pattering against the window. It seemed to Amaryll as though Rainier’s fingers slowed towards the end of the braid. As though, perhaps, he was unwilling to let go?

_ You are a formidable leader and woman. -To me you are. _

Her eyes fluttered shut with excitement. What if…

She sighed to clear her throat, to make sure it would release sounds when she spoke. Rainier in the meantime, undid some of the braid to redo a section of it. In doing so the back of his fingers stroked over her nape, causing her hairs to rise up towards the touch.

“Where did you learn how to braid, Thom?” she asked in an attempt to distract herself. 

The man behind her didn’t reply immediately. He simply braided, worked the strands of her hair to his will. 

“My sister.” Amaryll slightly turned her head at his solemn tone. “She had long hair, too. I’m a bit out of practice, I’m afraid. It’s been… forty years now, I think.”

“I’m sorry. You still miss her.”

“More often than not.”

Amaryll had no response to that. She’d never lost a family member. Clan members, friends she’d lost. Her whole family she had been separated from for years, and it almost felt like they had left her life for good. But to have her brother or sister ripped away from her at a young age… 

Disregarding his braiding hands, Amaryll leaned back onto Rainier in lieu of a hug.

“There is no need-,” he began to say, but he interrupted himself when she rested her damp head against his chest.

A reluctant grumble vibrated in his chest, made her smile. “I like it when you do that.”

“What? This?” 

Amaryll chuckled at the playful repeat of his grumbling. 

“Yeah. It’s soft. Warm. Safe.”

She heard him, felt him take a deep breath. There hung a delicate moment’s hesitation in the air - and then Thom rested his chin on her head, his right hand still holding the mostly completed braid. They stayed like this, for a little while. Just them in the tall hours of the day, alone with their understanding of each other.


	21. Thom & Amaryll  III

Amaryll felt an itch in her kneecaps before it happened, an unease that persevered no matter which of her physical needs she examined. She wasn’t thirsty, she wasn’t overly tired or sleepy, not hungry, not feeling very lonely. Aimless anxiety was no stranger to her, the feeling of alertness that found no outlet. When in Skyhold, she usually knew that it was naught but a manifestation of her mind. But out on the road she could never strip of the feeling that some danger was close. It was much like that now. 

“Thom,” she said softly as they took a curve in the road amongst the spruce trees. Brought back from wherever his thoughts had taken him, the warrior turned his head to her. “Perhaps you should put on your helmet.”

“Inquisitor?”

“I don’t think we’re alone. Can you feel it?”

Thom’s gaze wandered sideways as he honed his hearing to anything that might’ve announced a fight. There was nothing but the even breathing of the horses, the sounds of their movements, the distant birds singing into the dusk. But there was also an undeniable quality in the atmosphere, a weight to the air they breathed; they were being stalked.

“They’re waiting until we make camp,” Amaryll said in as low a voice as she could manage. “They may want to wait until we are asleep.”

“Well, we can’t have that.”

“Oh, I wish I had my bow. We could’ve had some fun with them.”

“I know, my lady. So what do you suggest?”

“I say we give them what they want. Before we lose all the daylight we still have. We set up a provisionary camp. And we let them come.”

Not long after the rogue detected their pursuers they came across a spot that, according to their map, was not too far away from a small spring and somewhat tucked away from the main road. After having watered the horses by the spring, they fed and tied them securely by a tree with nice patch of grass nearby, and went to set up their barebones camp. At no point did the Inquisitor and her bodyguard stray too far away from each other. They moved like liquid, like a unit, setting up their tent and digging a fire pit to cook over. It was like a performance, no part of it real. But the ease with which they worked together so fluidly, it caused a flutter in Amaryll’s chest. 

Once they had set up the essentials -minus the bedrolls, for they did not mean to spend the night in a place of bloodshed-, there was little to do but wait. 

Seated on the bag with the folded bed rolls, Amaryll watched her friend, her protector, build a fire. For a moment her thoughts drifted away from the danger and back to the previous night.

It’d been a piece of work to convince Thom to share the bed with her, but eventually she succeeded. It’d been a quiet night, at least until Thom had started snoring. Over and over, and over and over Amaryll had replayed the evening in her mind up until the moment that her friend had walked in on her after her soak. And with heat rising in her face and a tightness of want in her throat, she had pictured herself following her impulse to drop her towel and walk over to kiss him. 

Would he have let her? Reciprocated? Would he have held her the way she was longing to he held, by strong, warm arms and teeth bitten into her shoulder?

It was then than Amaryll leaned forward to distractedly pick a wet leaf off her boot, and heard the unmistakable whir of an arrow passing over her head. Within a moment she was on her feet. As was Thom, helmet donned and blade unsheathed. 

For a moment, the silence from earlier was restored as though nothing had happened. Then, two figures slinked out of the shadows from among the trees, and Thom let out a war cry loud and fiersome enough to shake anyone in the vicinity to their core. 

The rogue by his side, in the meantime, doged another missile aimed at her head. It seemed the archer had picked her as a target for her lack of helmet. By the third arrow, Amaryll had guessed the general direction and height of the attacker and was ready to strike. A light footed step, two, - “Be right back,” she told Thom, - and a pinch of powder from a loosely tied satchel on her belt.

Evading to the shadows was as easy as breathing. She shored along the tree line, gliding in a swing towards the archer who’d chosen to kill her. No arrows flew as the attacker was trying to regain sight of her. They waited, the both of them, bound into a silent dance, knowing every breath brought them closer. She had to hurry, she knew. If the archer pulled daggers, Amaryll would lose what little advantage she had.

He was an elf. Amaryll recognized that even in the dim light underneath the spruce trees, propped against the rising soil as she was. He kept himself in liquid motion, his back to the hill, moving his taut bow this way and that in case he caught glimpse of his opponent. 

Amaryll disappeared behind a tree, drawing new focus and renewing the illusion that had made her go unnoticed so far. She was flesh and she was bone, but for a few moments she could be made from nothing but light and dark. And light, as far as she was concerned, moved with no sound.

The archer sensed her coming too late. The instant that Amaryll’s blade pushed its way underneath his jawbone and upward, his body flailed instinctively, knocking the other rogue sideways. But the movement did him no favor. The blade had already been sunk into the intricate machinations of his pharynx and throat; he died fast, sputtering blood onto the damp, fragrant soil. 

Thom parried the second rogue slashing by his chest, redirecting the momentum so that his opponent’s shoulder was now facing him. She was a slender woman, so bringing his left arm around to knock her into the chest and to the ground took little effort. He reached up with his sword hand, then brought the tip of the blade down like a crash of thunder. Quick, and lethal. 

Just as quickly he withdrew it from the warm body beneath him, grabbing his blade with his gloved left hand in lieu of a shield and raised his arms to block the incoming blow from the remaining bandit. 

The man was skilled, he had to give him that. Where his companion’s attacks had been fast and distracting, his were sustained and deliberate, controlled. 

The two warriors started circling one another, keeping their knees flexible and bent. Where the bandit held his sword high, with the blade draped over his shoulder, Thom kept his pose defensive as an iron gate, sword low.

He didn’t notice Amaryll trailing the bandit until it was almost to late. She jumped out of the shadows and Thom’s eyes widened. A heartbeat, and Thom leaped forward, thrusting the sword from below towards his opponents gut. 

Success, safety, were close enough to taste. 

But before he knew it, a telekinetic force strong enough to almost extinguish the fire threw both him and the Inquisitor backwards. Where he mostly stumbled, the small woman had been thrown back several feet. And after a moment, started gagging. Thom panted with the effort to regain his footing but he succeeded. Looked like this now was up to him alone. 

A mage warrior. Blasted…

“Enough of this,” Thom snarled. “Surrend-”

A yelp escaped Amaryll’s when she saw Thom frozen where he stood. She still tasted the acid in her mouth that’d made its way there when she got knocked off her feet. But she had no time to indulge her nausea further; she had to kill the mage before he could kill her. And before being frozen in ice killed Thom. 

She came back into a stand when the arcane warrior turned to face her, swinging his sword in small loops. Luckily, she’d fastened her grip on the dagger before the blast, so she wasn’t unarmed. That would have been the death of her. 

“What’s the matter?” Amaryll asked him and took a step to the left. “You prefer the dance over the kill?”

“With the right partner.”

A grin split the Amaryll’s face, though her slim green eyes remained stubbornly fixed upon his helmet. 

It was a steel one that had clearly not been polished in a while. The small dents and scratches spoke of many fights, of experience. 

“In that case, I’m honored, messere. Might I know my dance partner’s name?”

“You might not.”

He stabbed forward, banking on her lowered guard, but Amaryll sidestepped his blade. She used the warrior’s momentum forward to lunge along the line of his arms toward and past his body. It happened fast, too fast; she was unable to turn the dagger in her right hand with its tip outwards, and so missed the moment to stab him right underneath the helmet. All she did was brush his shoulder and catch the scent of citrus before she regained footing just behind the warrior’s back, and turned. 

He did the same, and so they stood, positions reversed. 

“I’m surprised you’re using your sword over your powers,” Amaryll quipped. “Your companions are slowly bleeding to death while you’re wasting time trying to overpower me in combat.”

Just as the warrior opened his mouth, Amaryll took a swing and threw the dagger she held at him.The focus it took for him to block the incoming blade gave her time enough to disappear within another illusion.

The bandit immediately fell into movement, trying to anticipate an attack. Trying to protect his minimally covered backside, since, like with most heavy armors, the thighs and behind were exposed in favor of riding. 

“You fight dirty,” he said after a while, but the only response he received was the trees’ rustling. “I like that in a woman.”

Still nothing but silence.

He groaned impatiently, started shuffling his left foot on the ground. But no dust emanated from the damp soil, nothing to reveal the silhouette of his opponent. 

Then, a movement directly to his side. Before Amaryll knew what was happening, he’d fade stepped forward, leaving the hidden woman crouching on the ground, blade in hand; she’d grabbed one of the daggers that had lain by the other rogue’s corpse.

“This won’t be easy, darling. Never had quite a opponent like me.”

Amber eyes darted over the area wher ehe had previously stood, looking for inconsistencies in the environment. A shadow that fell where it ought not have, an obstruction of light. A few seconds, and then another one, and then he found it. With a disturbing, taunting cry the charged, charged towards her with a fury. 

Amaryll managed to dodge him just before his knee inadvertently connected with her face, before his raised blade could slice her back. The sudden roll she took diagonally to his line of movement cast off the illusion she’d so carefully upheld. He turned, just like she turned, but missed to slice her as she took another roll towards him, again diagonally. He tried spinning around in his heavy armor, but the close proximity to his target made it difficult- and more importantly gave her the time and space to make her hit. She stabbed the man in the back of his knees - right one, the warrior reflexively doubled over, knee bent protectively. Left one, he fell forward. Out of breath, Amaryll pushed his cramped right leg further out and then, with the practiced precision of a huntress, stabbed him where the left femoral artery should be. As she retrieved the dagger, the spurt of blood rewarded her effort. She repeated the stab on his other leg, hand slick with blood. 

Panting, shaky, nauseous, but alive, she moved herself backwards on her knees and waited for a stirring of her enemy’s. Something to indicate that it wasn’t over. But nothing came except for the cracking sound of ice breaking.

“Thom!”

He groaned as the fell onto his hands knees amidst the shards of his cage. Amaryll laboriously pushed herself into a stand and wobbled over to her friend as fast as she could. She kicked some bigger pieces of ice to the side and finally reached him.

“Thom. Can you get up? Thom?” 

Another low groan escaped him, but eventually he shifted his weight backwards. 

The short elf was by no means able to pull he hefty man in full armor to his feet, but her frame gave just enough support for him to do it himself. 

In the coming hours, Amaryll had to work quickly.

Staying at the scene of the fight was not an option; they had no big enough shovel, nor the physical health and prowess to bury three bandit’s corpses deep enough for predators to not sniff them out. But leaving was out of the question until Thom was out of danger -

Whenever he tried to speak, nothing but jumbled words came out, and his coordination had severely suffered from the minutes he’d spent frozen. He was clumsy, confused, shaky and so incredibly cold; his body was now unable to warm itself.

As fast as Amaryll could manage without throwing up, she got to work. She laid out two bedrolls on top of each other, stripped her friend of his cold and wet armor, pulled a spare dry shirt over his torso, then put him to rest by the fire, covered by both their blankets. 

He was still awake, which was a good sign, but once or twice things felt dire. It took a couple of hours, several servings of warmer water, a healing potion, and two handfuls of nuts and dried meat until he was finally warm and conscious enough. And even though the last thing he should have done was move, Amaryll collapsed the camp, packed everything messily, and urged Thom onto the horse. 

“I should... I should have helped, my lady. All by yourself- you did- you’re impaired, I should’ve helped.”

“Shush, love. I managed,” Amaryll replied with a sideways glance to the loosely tied bedrolls on the saddlebags. She prayed they’d hold. It certainly hadn’t been easy, but Thom didn’t need to know that.

They left the scent of blood, raw meat and feces behind and rode along the road to where Amaryll remembered the stream on the map to follow. They didn’t need to go far, only far enough to put a measure of distance between themselves and the battle ground. 

Once they found another spot, Thom helped light two torches and stuck them into the ground to illuminate the dark without a proper fire. By then his energy was almost utterly depleted, but he still helped the fumbling Amaryll set up a their tent and bedrolls. 

They went to bed without much prelude. Thom fell asleep as though he hadn’t gotten proper rest in days. Amaryll, on the other hand, could barely bring herself to close her eyes.

She listened to her friend’s breath in the darkness of their tent, afraid each one might be the last. Each time a snore was delayed, she sat up with a start, ready to do whatever was necessary to bring Thom back to life. Fear clenched her guts and twisted them inside her until dizziness and nausea threatened to overtake her. 

She wished for Vivienne to be here and accelerate Thom’s healing like she had done so many times before. She wished, desperately, that she had been less stubborn and included Cassandra into the mission. How hard would it have been? How hard would it have been to ask a mage from the tower to accompany her, as well? Perhaps then the attack wouldn’t have presented as close of a call, perhaps Thom wouldn’t be in danger.

_ Your pride. Your fault. _

_ Your pride. Your fault. _

If he died in his sleep as a result of complications caused by the hypothermia, it would be Amaryll’s fault. She would have to explain it to everybody. How her friend died an unnecessary death because she had been set on independence. 

But thankfully, Thom kept breathing. And each time a delayed snore ended up coming, tears of relief pricked her eyes. 

Two hours of that routine frayed Amaryll’s nerves like little else could have; eventually, she couldn’t take the loneliness of the situation anymore. She clumsily moved her bedding closer to Thom’s, close enough that she could see, even in the dark, strands of his long hair streaming down onto the pillow. 

Amaryll felt too awake to lay down, but sitting cross legged right by his back was soothing her a little. If only…

The discomfort in her belly subsided as a different type of ache spread in her chest. She didn’t consider the gesture at all, yet her hand reached forward to smooth over Thom’s hair. His next snore resembled a silent groan and Amaryll pulled away until he descended deeper into sleep. 

If only…

If only he knew how dear he was to her. There was something about him, something she couldn’t put her finger on, that filled her with a hunger. She felt like a canyon when beside him, ready to hold whatever he was willing to give. All that dedication, the devotion, if only it could be directed at her and not at her title. These past few days, it had felt like it could. As if he could love her, truly love her, and embrace her and kiss her and let her give herself to him. 

She would have done anything for him in this moment, anything at all. 

If only…

A push inside her had Amaryll lean over him, press her lips onto his stubbled cheek. He stirred like he had before, his head jerking upwards a little, even with his eyes still closed. Amaryll raised herself a bit though she didn’t completely pull away, and instead started to caress her friend’s hair again. Brushing a few long strands out of his face, letting her fingers scrape over his scalp. 

“Inquisitor-” a sharp sigh interrupted what he was going to say. “My lady. What are you-”

“I just wanted to check on you,” she said quietly. “Is this alright?”

Another low, long sigh escaped the sleepy man as she massaged the back of his head in circular motions. A sigh that spoke of comfort and of the daze of sleep. 

“It’s nice,” he finally replied, voice husky and deep.

Emboldened, Amaryll pulled her fingers from his hair and lowered herself to place another kiss on top of his cheekbone. She saw and felt him turn, a little, as if to look at her in the darkness. As if to turn his face closer to hers. He said nothing, but neither did he pull away. 

Amaryl swallowed, hard, and ignored the the heating of her breath to bring her right hand over his shoulder and cup Thom’s bearded cheek. To push a few strands of hair behind his ear. To pretend that she wasn’t aching for more closeness.

It would have been easy. It would have been so damned easy to kiss him now, to claim what she wanted. What she had been wanting. 

If only…

“Thom-”

If only he could call her by her name. Three syllables strung together in that gravelly voice, and she would be his. Damned be the consequences and the complications. Damned be her fear of being known, of being a disappointment, of becoming a hated little thing.

_ Please _ , she begged silently.  _ I am here. See me. Pull me closer.  _

“My lady?” she heard him rasping, voice as heady and heavy as she felt herself. 

She had half a mind to tell him.  _ Say my name. _ And the spell would be broken. She needed to hear it, hear him say it, so that she could know that she existed. 

But she couldn’t ask for it, now could she? If he didn’t come to her willingly, then what was this but a manipulation? An abuse of power? What were her feelings worth if they were pushed onto somebody else?

Thom was still looking up, inches away from a would-be kiss, pressing his cheek into Amaryll’s palm. 

“-I was so worried for you,” Amaryll finally said, somewhat dejectedly, with a soft breath out. 

Thom’s body softened with his next exhale as well.

“I will live, my lady. Thanks to you.”

She smiled.

“I love you, you know that?”

A sharp inhale in the darkness.

“I- my lady, I am not sure...”

Amaryll once again leaned forward. She pressed her lips on his for a chaste, quick kiss.

“Lift your head, will you?”

He did as he was told, and the woman shifted her body in a way to snake her left arm under his nape, to place his head on her chest. Chivalrous as he was, Thom draped his blanket over her to share along with his arm, and so they laid together. Awake for far longer than they would admit to each other, yet aware that the other was not yet sleeping.

Amaryll stroked Thom’s hair as if she’d never done anything else, until the light outside tinted the tent’s canvass a lighter beige.

“You’re so comfortable,” Thom heard her mutter into his hair before she drifted off to sleep. “I’ve never lain with anyone so comfortable.”

He swallowed everything he could have said in response. Every humble or dismissive reply, every proclamation of passion that could have made its way onto his tongue. 

Birds outside started to announce dawn, and he could not for the life of him fall back asleep. His ear and cheek pressed against the Inquisitor’s chest, he realized that which he had kept from himself for so long.

“I love you too,” he whispered to the woman whose fingers were still buried in his hair. “Amaryll.”

She never heard.


	22. Cassandra & Amaryll I

Upon her return to Skyhold Amaryll saw more changes than she was quite frankly comfortable with. 

On one hand, the Inquisition soldiers from Suledin Keep arrived on their last stop before their release from service; for the first time in over a month, Skyhold felt lively again. It was like a spring breeze had carried into the fort that lifted everyone’s spirits. Herald’s Rest was busy again, no matter what time of the day Amaryll went there. Most of the men and women had already seen their Inquisitor around before, and heard enough casual stories of her to suspect Amaryll to be the approachable sort. And so she quickly found a roster of pleasant people to have a couple of drinks with and exchange travel stories. 

The Chantry folk that flocked in, on the other hand, was less sympathetically inclined. Perhaps they had expected her to vanish now that she had served her purpose as the Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste. But the crux of the matter was that they wouldn’t stop staring. It felt much like back in Haven, when people in red robes would look at her with a mixture of awe and disgust. She couldn’t explain why the looks she got so often seemed to have a tint of disapproval to them, but there was no doubt in her mind that it was there. It was difficult to not let old, bitter resentment towards clerics and the Chantry as a whole rise up inside her. 

And perhaps it would have been easier, had she been able to get a hold of her favorite Chantry member. But as it was, Cassandra was rarely to be found anywhere, which threw Amaryll off more than almost all the other things. 

The Seeker was not training in her favorite corner when Amaryll came by after breakfast like she usually would when she was doing her rounds. She was not in Skyhold’s gardens, the septa, not on the battlements. It was very possible that the two women simply kept missing one another. But the more time went by that Amaryll spent not talking to Cassandra, the bigger her unease grew. 

In the meantime, Thom left Skyhold. 

A few dozen of people attended his farewell party, and just as many if not more came to send him off. Among them Cullen, Leliana, Josephine, Cassandra (who Amaryll’d made a mental note to catch after this was over), as well as Cole, Maryden and Cabot. It left the gruff man emotional, Amaryll could tell, when he saw all the people who showed for no other reason than to pay their respects and wish him well. He gave out handshakes and hugs to whoever requested them, smiles and carved toys to those he knew had children.

“Maker, I feel like I should be giving a speech,” he’d grumbled, his voice stuffy by the time it was Amaryll’s turn.

“Don’t. The best heroes just make a sarcastic remark and then ride off into the sunset. Ask Varric,” was all she could say before she was pulled into a quick and crushing hug. 

There was nothing else Thom said to her. After the hug he reached into one of the saddlebags of the horse by his side and pulled out his another wooden toy: a carved halla statuette. Amaryll’s heart started beating at an entirely unreasonable pace when she laid eyes on the dark brown work of art, and it skipped a beat when the broad man stepped back in front of her and took her hand. The wood was smooth against her palm, and even though it was such a small gesture she couldn’t tear her eyes off it for a little while. 

When she did, she met Thom’s warm gaze. A moment- then she threw her arms around his midriff, pressing herself against his studded armor. Thom slung his own arms around her, face lowered. The low whispers that came from the small crowd were so far away. 

After what felt like much longer than was proper in public, they let go. Amaryll went on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek one last time, but still they exchanged no words. All they could have said to one another had already been said in the past few days. There was nothing more to do but to let go. Perhaps for good.

The Inquisitor was the last of the spectators to bid Thom Rainier a personal goodbye. As he climbed onto his horse, Amaryll stepped back to the crowd where there was an empty spot next to Josephine. 

The ambassador, who had watched the scene in front of her with a wrinkle between her brows, tried catching the Inquisitor’s gaze to give her an empathetic smile. But the other woman seemed to have eyes for no one but her departing friend. If… if that was all he was to her, Josephine thought, slightly sucking in her cheeks. 

When she caught a glance of Leliana, she saw her friend mustering the Inquisitor as well and wondered what she was thinking about this all. Perhaps there was a way to subtly inquire. 

Clapping from the crowd tore Josephine from her thoughts and brought her attention back to the man of the hour; Thom Rainier, formerly known as Warden Gordon Blackwall, waved from his horse like a chivalrous knight. A last gaze over the crowd that lingered here and there, before he guided his steed around to face the gate and start trodding. Clapping and shouts followed him until he was finally out of sight, and Josephine couldn’t help but spare a few tears for the man who had proven to himself and others that a dishonorable person could rise to become a hero, provided he was given a chance. 

Just as Josephine had gathered her composure enough to give out a few words of comfort to the visibly upset Lavellan, the Inquisitor turned on the spot. Still clutching the halla to her breast, she walked, or half ran, towards the steps that would lead to the upper courtyard. She cared not for who was standing in her way, neither talked to nor looked at anyone.

And Josephine had to wonder what else had happened during the operation aside from delivering her letter to Leliana’s Warden. 

  
  


The Inquisitor was not seen outside of her chamber for the rest of the day, nor for a good portion of the following one. Which suited Cassandra just fine; she had been able to dodge Lavellan for the past week, but it had taken considerable effort. 

It was not something Cassandra would usually do, and it did feel fairly silly. But her wounded ego demanded some space from Lavellan, and unfortunately that woman had the habit of being everywhere and nowhere at once. Especially in phases where she had a near bottomless supply of energy.

Cassandra’s luck, however, ran out the day after Rainier’s departure. In the afternoon, she had gone to visit Leliana to discuss a matter regarding the Seekers. On her way back down, she was met with Lavellan, who was about to settle in the library.

“Cassandra!” the other woman exclaimed and immediately sprung from the chair which Dorian used to inhabit. 

There was no way to leave quickly or discreetly. _Very well, then_ , she thought.

“Inquisitor.”

Hearing the warrior’s cool tone, Lavellan’s smile dropped only a little; it was her eyes that showed acknowledgement of it.

“It’s good to see you,” she said cautiously while stepping closer. “I haven’t seen you around much as of late.”

“You know how it is.” Cassandra paused. “For some of us, our work is only beginning now that the Inquisition is coming to an end. As a matter of fact, I ought to be going right now. You will excuse me.”

There was only a second’s worth of a pause from Lavellan.

“Of course.”

It was a good thing about her, Cassandra supposed. Lavellan rarely pressed her friends for anything, and so she allowed Cassandra to remove herself from the situation without any lingering discomfort. Although it did leave her to wonder how long she could avoid talking to Lavellan. She knew she didn’t want them to part ways like this, estranged from one another. But she she didn’t quite rightly know how to broach the topic without sounding… immature, perhaps that was the word.

Cassandra’s mind was still clouded in these dreary thoughts when she walked down the stairs to atrium. She paid no mind to the desk that had stood there since the very beginning, nor the elaborate artwork that graced the walls. 

After their arrival from the Winter Palace, when she had realized how many elves had left the fort in their absence, Cassandra had taken it upon herself to inspect Solas’ atrium. Leliana’s agents, of course, had searched thoroughly after the mage had abandoned them, but an itch inside her could not resist.

Her and Solas had never been close, but there had been a mutual respect, she had always felt… now she knew that she must’ve been mistaken. 

According to what Lavellan had relayed in that dead voice of hers after the events beyond the Eluvians, Solas did not see the inhabitants of Thedas as people. No better than a world of tranquil, Lavellan had said. 

Her, a tranquil. In spite of having been made tranquil in the past, Cassandra now considered that an impossible thought. And it was the first time, she realized, that something she had considered a friendship had turned out to not be what she thought it was.

“Cassandra!”

Another impossible thing.

She turned to see Lavellan descend the stairs, looking distressed, and Cassandra immediately bristled. Whether it was because it set off a sense of danger for her, or because she did not want to see the other woman right now, she couldn’t tell.

“What is it, Inquisitor?” she asked, but Lavellan did not reply until she stood in front of her, staring up into her face.

Her mouth opened, closed, and she pulled her stiff shoulders back as if to brace herself. It was a movement that Cassandra didn’t recognize in the Inquisitor, one that left her uneasy. 

“I don’t mean to be- I feel like-” she finally stuttered. “Have you been- avoiding me, by any chance?”

Cassandra pressed her lips together for a moment.

“I am surprised you have noticed,” she then pushed out, jaw set tight. “You have not exactly been present of late."

“You mean-“ Lavellan took a small step backwards, visibly taken aback. 

Cassandra hated the innocent confusion on her friend’s face, when her own emotions were so clear so her. _You hurt me. I am hurt. Why will you not understand?_

“I mean,” Cassandra said, as contained as she could possibly muster, “your sudden taking off on a mission with Rainier. Possibly the last one we could accomplish together, as… as us. Did I not cross your mind? Did you not think to ask me?”

Shock passed the Inquisitor’s face like the wisp of a cloud. This was answer enough for Cassandra; she turned her back on Lavellan and tried to swallow the furry taste in her mouth without success.

_I thought I had a friend in you. Someone who saw me. I rode with Cole to save you from yourself, yet I am not worth a thought to you._

“Cassandra…” she heard the Inquisitor say softly, stepping closer. “It wasn’t like that-”

“You needn’t bother, Inquisitor,” she interrupted without looking back. “I simply believed you and I to be on a similar page. I am sorry for mistaking our friendship for something it was not.”

She didn’t mean for her eyes to start burning. Damnit. Before the Inquisitor could say anything further, she started walking away towards the door to the Main Hall.

Talking about it had accomplished nothing, much like she had feared. She was done being consumed by this. It was time to steel herself.


	23. Merrill III

It had rained in the morning, and the soil between the trees was still malleable and moist when Merrill and Iphemriel stepped between the them. There had been one more case of vandalism since the first cleanup, and fixing it had taken most of yesterday. 

Tonight, the two Dalish elves would be staking out the Forest to make sure it didn’t happen again. And so they sneaked, armored and armed, in between the young trees and spirits of the dead.

The veil was like a whisper, here. Merrill had already noticed the first time she’d come here. But now, in the darkness of the early night with the sun hidden away just below the rooftops, it seemed the air around them was dense with magic. Judging by Iphemriel’s solemn look he might have been feeling it as well, though it was hard to say; the rogue oftentimes had a very serious expression on his face. He reminded Merrill a bit of Fenris that way.

It was quiet for hours, and they didn’t dare talk. When they passed one particular tree towards the back of the Forest, Iphemriel fell out of step with Merrill. But only for a moment. 

Like two wraiths they slid between the trees, waiting for their marks. The goal was to apprehend them and have Aveline do what was right, even if Merrill only had limited faith in the Captain of the Guard. 

And just as Merrill started to tire and consider taking her first mana potion, they heard a commotion towards the entrance of the graveyard. 

“Shemlen,” Iphemriel whispered.

Within a second and a half, he had unsheathed several of his throwing knives and fallen into a defensive position, while Merrill dimmed the magelight she had been keeping alive since it’d gotten dark. She ruffled in the bag slung about her shoulder for a mana potion that she downed as if it were the Hanged Man’s ale and she a desperate person. Then, she placed the bag against one of the trees and moved grabbed for the staff fastened on her back. 

In unison, the Dalish elves moved towards the torchlight in the distance and the source of the ruckus. They were proven right in their suspicion before they even laid eyes on the perpetrators.

Humans, five of them overall, carrying buckets and brushes along with them. And a mabari, to Merrill’s surprise.  _ Fereldans _ ?

The dog sniffed out the her spell before any of the vandals could. The air around them charged quicker than they could raise their defenses or leave the area; bolts of lightning struck every single one of the men and women, rendering them temporarily paralyzed. 

Their torches fell to the ground and Merrill extinguished them with a gesture, leaving the only light around her own one.

She couldn’t sense a mage among them, but that didn’t have to say much. Before any of them could reveal themselves as more than they seemed to be, she summoned the song of life within herself. It was always present, but louder once Merrill allowed herself to listen.

Hearing the way blood was rushing through her body, hearing it mingle with the sound of the same from Iphemriel, from her targets, gave her a thrill like fingertips on the nape of her neck, hairs rising to meet the loving touch. 

Merrill stepped out in the small clearing and opened herself up as if she were reaching out her hand, ready to grasp for more. More sounds, more heat, more flickering life, more singing blood. And then- then she curled her fingers and took control.

Shocked groans escaped the humans, and a long whine from the dog, as they were all forced down onto their knees. 

“What in the-” one of them exclaimed, bending forward, but Merrill let his voice die right in his throat. 

With Iphemriel trailing behind her, ready to attack at a moment’s notice, the blood mage came to a halt in front of a man who looked to be the leader of the group. 

“You,” Merrill said coldly. “Speak, as long as you may. Why are you doing this to the people in the Alienage?”

“I don’t know what you mean, messere, we came only to pay-”

His words melted into an incoherent gargle as magic tightened his throat, and the woman beside him screamed.

“Don’t you dare lie,” Iphemriel snarled at him. “You didn’t come here with buckets of paint to draw flowers on the walls. This ground is sacred, do you understand? So you answer her question before our patience runs out.”

The pale man wheezed under the blanket of magic that Merrill had lain upon him. He was breathing, rasping, and finally she allowed him to talk. 

“We’re not doing much, messere,” he wheezed. “We do no harm, just a bit of paint on a couple of trees, that doesn’t-”

The thin blade whirred through the damp air like an arrow, the tip piercing his shoulder with deliberate precision. His scream cut through the air loud enough to wake any families in the vicinity. 

“You were told not to lie,” Merrill said calmly. “This is a graveyard. How would you feel if I unearthed your mother’s grave? Would you say there’s no harm done then?”

One of the two women in the group had begun to whimper, and as Merrill spoke she grew increasingly unable to contain the volume. 

“Have mercy,” she begged, her voice shaking. “Have mercy, have mercy, have mercy…”

“Earn it. Tell us why you’re doing this.”

But the vandal was too shaken to string more coherent words together.

“We were paid, messere,” the first woman said in a thick Fereldan accent. 

“Paid. Paid by whom?” Iphemriel asked.

“I- I don’t know.” She looked to their leader with desperate eyes, and Merrill lifted the spell on his throat. 

Loud coughing filled the clearing, a wheezing breath in.

“A noble,” the man rasped. “I wasn’t given a name… there was a messenger… he brought the coin-”

“How did the noble find you? How did he know you would do such things?” Iphemriel interrupted.

The man looked up to him, rocking back and forth, but kept quiet.

“Speak!” Merrill demanded, but he kept his tongue still.

The mage raised her staff and brought it back onto the ground with a smack, and the leader immediately collapsed forward, unconscious. The woman in the back shrieked once again, then fell into prayer. 

“You,” Iphemriel said, pointing to another pale man to the leader’s right. “How were you chosen to do this? Why did you agree?”

A moment’s silence filled the air.

“An elf killed my wife-”

“Bullshit. One more lie and you’ll be made into a pincushion.”

“I lent an elf money and- ARGH!”

Iphemriel hadn’t thrown the knife to pierce him, it merely flew by his head. But it was enough to scare the man into soiling himself, judging by the smell. Merrill didn’t covet it. 

“One last time. How were you chosen for this despicable act?”

“We all- we all go to the same tavern. There has been talk of- of the Viscount… and the Champion...” Merrill visibly stiffened. “The dwarf means to undermine the people of Kirkwall… and it is well-known that the Champion is an elf-lover…” 

Knowing he’d stepped into dangerous territory, he closed his mouth shut for a few moments. But one remark she seemed to not be able to omit: “You know I’m right! They’re trying to take over the state, and where will we be when that happens? Our livelihoods? Our children?”

There was another moment of silence.

“Better off without you as a father,” Iphemriel said, now sounding tired. He lifted his hand as if to throw another knife, and the man flinched, but the knife’s tip hit the soft soil next to Iphemriel’s foot. A gesture of frustration, nothing more.

Where his mind seemed to have stilled, Merrill’s was running to its fullest capacity. 

“The break-in in the Champion’s school and mansion,” she brought up distractedly. “What do you know about it?”

“Nothing, messere, nothing!” the Fereldan woman to Merrill’s right answered. “T’wasn’t us, I swear.”

“Could it have been people who were paid, like you?”

“Could be! Could be, messere! Couldn’t it?” she said, looking back to the other group members who were still awake, and now nodding their heads. “Could be! Yes!”

“The pamphlets?”

“Yes! The papers! We saw them at our tavern, too, we did! Saw nobody giving them out, but they were there!”

Iphemriel looked to his companion, who had fallen quiet. 

“What are you thinking?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

It took her a little while to answer, sunken into thoughts as she was.

“I think,” she said, “I think… we ought to get these people to Aveline for questioning. It’s going to be a long night, lethallin.”

  
  
  
***

_ Dearest Cassandra,  _

_ You did cross my mind.  _

_ This mission, I simply wanted to accomplish it on my own. Without you, Rainier, Cole, without anyone’s help. I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it on my own. Alas, Rainier ran into me as I was about to leave and he insisted on coming for the same reasons you would have. And pressed for time as I was, I did not argue.  _

_ In hindsight I would have been wise to call on you and ask you to join. As we now know, I am not a wise person. _

_ This all doesn’t excuse the hurt I caused you. I am sorry to have made you think that I do not cherish you.  _

  
  


_ Meet me, if you will, tomorrow night at nine bells in the Gardens. I would like to make it up to you. Please. _

_ If you can’t be there, I will understand. My behavior towards you these past few weeks was unworthy. I mean for that to change and hope that you can give me another chance.  _

_A._

  
  



	24. Varric III

“And they stayed at the station all night?” Hawke asked, mildly horrified.

The small group moved through Kirkwall’s Lowtown and towards the Docks with confidence. It was one that spoke of a practiced team, as Hawke, Varric, and Aveline were. The only difference between the old days and now, however, was the fact that one of them had their own two guards trailing behind a few feet.

“Believe me, they wouldn’t have if I’d have been there,” Aveline replied grimly, never failing to part the stream of people who came from the opposite direction. “I’ve made it clear that anything related to the vandalism on Alienage property, or you, for that matter, would be treated with priority.”

“Thank you, Aveline,” Hawke said and fell into step with the energetic warrior. “Poor Merrill. And Iphemriel. I hope his children were alright with him gone all night.”

“I hope Daisy is getting some rest for once,” was Varric’s main concern. For the thousandth time, he cursed his short legs. “She is going to get herself killed, taking on as much as she does.”

“Hm. I didn’t think I’d say this but Merrill has really grown up,” Aveline said. “She’s not as stupid as she used to be.”

Varric finally caught up with the women, and almost wished he hadn’t; he could feel Hawke next to him immediately bristling in her leather armor. 

“Just because she wasn’t what you’d think of when you picture an adult doesn’t mean she wasn’t one,” she said without missing a beat. “And she was definitely never stupid, Aveline. That’s not a fair thing to say.”

Aveline sighed and averted her gaze.

“Do you always have to pick a fight over the little things, Hawke? I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Which way did you mean it, then?”

“It doesn’t matter. Besides. Not fair? Wouldn’t you say that using blood magic is unfair?”

“Her use of blood magic has saved your ass more than once, in case you have forgotten.”

“I don’t forget anything, Hawke.”

“Look, could that be our guy?” Varric interrupted quickly, pointing to the two men standing in front of the loading dock. 

Aveline scoffed. 

“Human, pale, brown hair and eyes? Sure it could. Him and a third of Kirkwall.”

“But we have a name, too,” Hawke countered. “Daniel. So how about we start with that. This doesn’t need to be hopeless.”

With that, Hawke quickly overtook Aveline in pace and launched herself toward the two idle men. She greeted them with cheer and asked if either of them either was, or knew, Daniel. They didn’t, and so the group marched on. I took them a good half hour before anything interesting happened. 

Aveline asked the quartermaster of a ship that had recently docked the exact same question they had been repeating, when Varric caught something from the corner of his eye; a man, by one of their target’s descriptions, who dropped a crate he was carrying, turned on his heel, and bolted. 

“Over there!” Varric yelled, pointing that direction and grabbing Bianca off his back.

Aveline, in the meantime, charged like her life depended on it and caused quite an uproar from people who watched from the sidelines. The mage cast a freezing spell, but missed as the man dodged a few pedestrians and disappeared around the corner towards the heart of Lowtown.

“Andraste’s-” Hawke began, but stopped herself as she fell into a sprint. “Come on!”

“Hold on- Hawke!”

By Andraste’s Holy Knickers, how was it that she  _ still _ kept forgetting that he was not as fast as them!

“What are you waiting for?” he barked at his two bodyguards and stashed Bianca on his back. “Off you go!”

And without waiting for a reply, he began running as well. Luckily, the charging women had carved out a pretty nice path for him to follow, even if delayed. Within less than a minute, Varric rounded the corner that the suspect had just taken and kept pushing. His lungs soon started burning and his thighs grew tired, but the dwarf did not relent. One of his bodyguards overtook him in spite of the heavy armor she was wearing, and started clearing the way for him of pedestrians who might’ve stood in his way by shouting. 

“I can see them, my lord!” she yelled back to him, and Varric pushed out a small prayer of thanks.

He gathered the rest of his stamina and accelerated. Soon, he got an eyeful of an upset, yet intrigued rabble of people around it.

“I don’t know what you want from me. Get away! Get away from me!” he heard from among the group, and pushed his way through the spectators. What he saw immediately was a demolished merchant’s stand and the suspect laying among a bunch of produce, with the tip of Hawke’s staff pointed under his chin. Aveline stood a couple of feet away, her armor no longer in its pristine Guard-Captain condition, but rather soiled with fruit and vegetable juices. Varric was no expert, but from the look of it seemed Aveline had full on tackled the man into the stand to slow him down. Crude, but effective. 

He gestured his bodyguards to disperse the crowd; they immediately got to work.

“Why’d you run, friend?” Hawke asked in a conversational tone.

“Are you crazy? You came at me!” the man yelled, looking around to find sympathy in the people who were leaving to go about their day.

“Not true. You saw us, heard us asking for a Daniel, then ran. So. Care to explain? You clearly recognized us. Are you Daniel?”

The man’s jaw slackened considerably, and with a quick movement Hawke tapped it with her staff from below to close his mouth.

“Talk here or talk at the Viscount’s Keep. It’s your choice,” Aveline threatened. “Are you or are you not this man we are looking for?”

“I… no. I’m not Daniel.”

“But you know Daniel,” Hawke stated as she moved the tip of the staff downward towards the man’s chest.

“He’s my mate, he…”

“Did you or did you not go to visit a publisher by the name of Annabelle?” Aveline cut him off.

“That’s what this is about- I mean I-” he interrupted himself with a quick look to Hawke and Varric, “I- I might’ve, messere. You see there is this book-”

“You’re not a writer,” Hawke said brusquely.

“Not according to what Annabelle told us, at least” Varric added, and watched the man’s face grow red. “What’s your name, sonny?”

“It’s… I’m Clyde.”

“Clyde, then. Take my hand,” Aveline said as she stepped closer, reaching out to help the suspect up. “You and Daniel went to see the Coterie publisher, had her draw up a hateful pamphlet against elves, and the before you had to pay to have them printed you went to a cheaper competitor.”

“Leaving you effectively screwed,” Varric added and slapped the man on the back to dust him off. “Because now Annabelle wants your heads on a stick. You should be grateful we found you first, my friend. Because when the Coterie gets their hands on you, you’re in for a bad time. Now, for the matter at hand. How did you get the money to pay Annabelle for the draft? She doesn’t meet with anyone unless they pay her a portion upfront for her time.”

“A noble, milord…”

“Who?” Hawke asked, directing her staff at him once more. 

“I- I wasn’t given a name, messere… a messenger came and said a patron of his thought our views… aligned, and if I wanted to do something about the situation…”

“The situations being elves?” Anger strained the Champions voice, and the gem imbedded into the top of her staff began emitting a faint glow. 

The man was smart enough to keep his mouth firmly shut, which Aveline registered with a sigh.

“Alright then, Clyde. You’re coming with me. As for your stand,” she directed at the quietly enraged shopkeeper a few feet away from them, “I’m sure the Lord Viscount will gladly settle that with you. Hawke. My Lord.”

And with a grin flashed towards Varric, she grabbed Clyde by his arm and stalked off towards a shortcut to Hightown.

After paying the merchant his due, Hawke and Varric strolled back to the docks and took the longer route towards Lowtown’s main market- and The Hanged Man, where they would be hopefully able to ditch Varric’s bodyguards. Unless they were also planning on drinking themselves into a stupor.

Hawke exhaled slowly as some of the tension from earlier finally rolled off her back. She credited Varric with that. Being around him was honestly, genuinely nice, and perhaps the most relaxed Hawke found herself in days. If she were to point to the one person who was the most like family to her, aside from Anders and Deliah, it would have been Varric. Every single time.

Overcome by a wave of affection, Hawke swerved closer in her walk to the dwarf, put her arm around his shoulder and gave him a kiss on top of his greying hair.

“Woho, what’d I do to deserve that one, Hawke?” he asked immediately, half laughing.

“Aside from being your own fine self? Nothing much. But I thought you could use some pick-me-up there, Viscount. You were looking a little grim for a moment.”

Varric let out a sigh from somewhere deep under his chest hair as he avoided walking into a puddle of something brown and indefinable. 

“I just keep thinking… who could it be? I let the faces of all the noble bastards I know pass before my eyes, trying to figure out which one of them would pay to have these pamphlets drawn up, and go about desecrating elven graveyards.”

“And?”

“I’ve come to the conclusion that I know too damn many noble bastards.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Varric. That kinda comes with the job.”

“Ugh. I know. Don’t remind me.”

Hawke laughed silently, and earned herself a warm smile from her friend. 

These moments still felt especially rare and precious, even if the both of them now more or less lived in Kirkwall again. Hawke had been torn from her family’s side too often to expect any sort of stability in that department, but she had to admit that she noticed herself getting used to seeing Varric more regularly. They had come to see each other every few weeks, even if it was only to talk about business. But usually Varric could arrange for a free evening where they would sit in his quarters, drink, and talk about everything and nothing. That was, however, without a serial killer and vandals on the loose.

“In all seriousness, though. Any clues? Perhaps it’s somebody who recently came into some more money to spend, or… someone who is already involved in some bullshit...”

“That’s the problem, Hawke. They’re all full of shit. How to determine which one of them is filled with more shit than the others?”

“You could tip them over and then look at the mess that spills out?”

“Genius idea.”

“I know. I’m just chock full of those.”

Varric’s chuckle was soothing. 

By now they had arrived in front of the stairs that would lead to Lowtown’s main market space, and neither of them coveted the climb up. But with a shared look of encouragement, the Viscount and the Champion tackled the task ahead of them.

“Have you heard from Blondie?” Varric asked as a way to distract them from the climb. He kept his voice low, discreet, so that the two guards trailing a few feet behind them wouldn’t hear too much.

“He’s written, yes. Says he’s safe, but Deliah’s been sleeping more.” 

Hawke paused for a little while, and Varric wondered what she was thinking. He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“She’s getting older,” the champion continued. “I don’t think she’ll be with us for much longer. I wish I’d taken her with me when I left the Coast, but… well. Anders needs the company more. I have you, and Merrill, and Aveline after all.”

She threw him a smile that was perhaps supposed to hide the tint of sadness in her eyes. But Varric could see what she was thinking, and it was not something that he knew how to soothe with words.

“You’ll always have us. And Broody and Isabela, of course, wherever they may be.”

“Hopefully in only the best kind of trouble. The one that gets shit done, or gets them laid. In Isabela’s case, I think we can count on both.”

A quick bout of laughter escaped Varric. “There never was a safer bet.”

“Mhm.”

For a little while there was only panting between them as the finally reached the top of the staircase. Varric, in the meantime, tried to pry his thoughts from the question that had been on his mind ever since his best friend had returned to Kirkwall. He hadn’t asked it, not yet, lest Hawke felt pressured to talk about something she didn’t want to talk about. But as time went on, Varric found he had to at least try.

“And how have you been?”

Hawke’s face showed an innocent blankness as if she truly didn’t know why he would ask.

“What you mean?” she wanted to know.

“Mh, well, I noticed you’ve been quite down in the dumps lately. More so than usually,” Varric ventured forth and observed his friend raising her shoulders. “Listen, you know I don’t like to pry but… I wondered if everything was alright with you. Or at home. Or both.” He exhaled impatiently. “Ach, I don’t know. You don’t have to answer. I just… you know.”

He had averted his gaze, intent on not making this more awkward for Hawke. But looking at her now she didn’t seem to mind his inquiry all that much. But she did have a guarded look on her face that Varric didn’t love.

“I know. Thank you, Varric. I’m fine. Just a bit tired lately, that’s it.”

“Mhm.”

They walked side by side for a while, closing in on the Hanged Man, when Hawke reluctantly halted. They had reached the Lowtown market by now, but late in the afternoon as it was, several shop keepers had already left their stands, and only few people were passing through. 

Varric stopped when he noticed that his friend had fallen behind, and twisted to see where she’d gone off to. She made no attempt at keeping a neutral expression on her face anymore. Instead, she looked so serious that something inside him grew heavy. 

“Hawke?” he asked, and walked back toward where she stood, with the bodyguards close behind her. When he was in front of her, Varric reached for her arm.

She looked down to him, hair obscuring the edges of her face. 

“I…” she began, but her voice trailed off. 

Her eyelashes painted trembling shadows on her cheeks when she closed her eyes, then opened them again. 

“I was pregnant,” Hawke finally whispered. “Before I left, we… we ended it. I couldn’t...”

Varric stared at her, not knowing what to say. He had expected that there was something additional weighing on her, but not this. He wasn’t sure what the right thing to say was. The biggest clue, perhaps, was the way Hawke was looking at him. Intently, as if she were pleading with him. And so Varric searched within himself to find what she was looking for, and pulled her into a hug. Immediately, the worn woman let herself dissolve into him. With her arms resting on his shoulders, crossed behind his nape, she put her cheek on his head and made herself soft, malleable. 

It helped that she wasn’t wearing her spiky Champion’s armor but a lighter one, made of softer leather.

“I get it,” Varric told her, quietly, and felt her hug get tighter. 

Because he did get it. And he was glad that she now wasn’t alone with her grief anymore. 

Just like years ago after Leandra was taken from her, when Varric came to visit an uncannily quiet Hawke in her even quieter mansion, he lend her his compassion and his love. It was a special type of pain to lose a parent that you had a complicated relationship with, he knew. And it was another special type to lose the promise of a life you wouldn’t have. Varric had experience with both, so he felt he understood the type of grief that his friend was experiencing. And perhaps that was all Hawke needed, in that moment: understanding. 

After what felt like an eternity in each other’s arms, the tall woman gave Varric’s shoulder a few gentle pats to signal for the hug to end. As they peeled themselves off each other, Varric caught a careful glimpse of her face, and saw that Hawke wasn’t crying, thankfully. She looked a little brighter than before. 

“There ya go,” he said. “C’mon. Let’s get ourselves a few drinks and see how many people we can convince to drink theirs in a handstand.”

That wrung a short laughter from Hawke, who put her arm around his shoulder once again. 

“Yeah,” she said, “let’s.” 

That was when an arrow, shot from the roof of the Hanged Man, pierced Hawke’s chest, causing her to fall, fall, 

fall, fall,

fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends, it's time for pain again! did you miss it? if you've made it this far in the fic, know that i appreciate you and wish you the loveliest day! x


	25. Cassandra & Amaryll II

The septa was quiet, even after a good hour of his presence there. For this, he was grateful.

“ _ Eyes sorrow-blinded, in darkness unbroken, _ ” Cullen recited, voice low and thoughtful. “ _ There ‘pon the mountain, a voice answered my call _ .”

He had been able to get out of bed this morning, eat and shave. For this, he was grateful. 

“ _ Heart that is broken, beats unceasing _ ,” he continued, “ _ An ocean of sorrow does nobody drown. _ ”

Moreover, he had actually been able to get some work done. He’d gone to oversee the rest of the troop’s training and found it to be up to par. For this, he was grateful. 

“ _ You have forgotten, spear-maid of Alamarr. _ ”

He had read through a portion of the enormous stack of reports that were due, and written two of his own for Leliana and the Inquisitor. For this, he was grateful.

“ _ Within my creation, none are alone. _ ”

Cullen was most grateful, however, for the peace in his heart. After weeks of suffering, he allowed himself to be cautiously optimistic. He was almost up to his previous form. Every now and then the pain returned and made him falter. But it was by far not as bad as it’d been.

“That’s a beautiful sentiment, Commander,” a voice behind him said, startling him.

When he turned his torso, he saw the Lavellan’s silhouette among the bright light that was pouring into the septa. 

“Inquisitor,” he greeted her as he rose from his knees onto his feet. “Yes, I agree. It is good to take heart in the knowledge that everything is connected, according to the Maker’s plan.”

“Mh. Some Dalish believe a similar thing. Though of course without your Maker.”

_ Y o u r Maker. _

Cullen gave no response to this, and Lavellan did not seem to expect one; she simply walked to close some of the distance between them. Her eyes shone bright in the dim light of the septa, her features were blurred by the backlight. Still, Cullen recognized the expression on her face. It was neutral, yet attentive. It was an expression she wore in the War room a lot, and he wondered if he was in for some kind of reprimanding. 

“It’s good to see you up and about,” she finally said, tilting her head a little. “For a while there Skyhold saw little of you.”

There it was. Cullen felt his insides grow heavy.

“I apologize, Inquisitor,” he said without missing a beat. “I didn’t mean to neglect my duties. My health-”

“You misunderstand,” she interrupted him, voice calm and low, raising her right hand. “I’m just saying that I am glad to see you better, Cullen. That’s all I meant to say.”

The smile she offered him was bright and genuine, and he felt himself relax. 

“That- ah- thank you, Inquisitor.”

“I regret not checking on you while you were unwell,” she continued. “I hope you can forgive me.”

Now this he hadn’t expected. They had spent time together, every now and then. Especially before Corypheus had been slain, it had been Cullen who had taught the Inquisitor how to play chess in a way to try to beat Dorian at it. Afterwards, she used to come by his office about once a week to discuss progress and status reports in person, to engage in some friendly conversation. But that had been before the Exalted Council. Before she fell ill.

“That is... very kind of you to say, but you are by no means obligated to check on me, Inquisitor. I wouldn’t have expected you to,” he replied, still somewhat taken aback. “Seeing as you had your own… things to deal with.”

Lavellan’s composure slipped off her face for just a moment, was briefly replaced by an indefinable expression. Her weight shifted from one foot to the other, and Cullen noticed the woman tucking her incomplete arm behind her back.

“Well… I suppose neither of us has been in prime shape as of late.” A small, wry smile stretched her lips. 

“I suppose so,” Cullen agreed quietly, and watched the smile on the Inquisitor’s face soften, deepen. 

A moment’s silence stood between them.

He hadn’t witnessed the her bout of madness because he had been preoccupied with his own illness. But from what he had been told by Josephine, and more so from Cassandra, there had been cause for concern regarding her recovery. For a while, it seemed the Inquisitor would not be able to deal with the losses that the past weeks had brought.

Had it felt, he wondered, similar to his own situation? Or perhaps to his experience of leaving the Templars? Of watching his own powers dwindle after cutting out lyrium? That feeling of suddenly being less than?

“Well,” she said again. “It was good to see you outside of the war room, Commander. You take care of yourself, alright? I have things I should really address right now, but perhaps we can play another game of chess sometime soon.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan nodded in acknowledgement, her arms still crossed behind her back. When she turned, Cullen’s eyes couldn’t help but affix themselves to the imperfect one. A question rose to sit on the tip of his tongue. He couldn’t ask it, wouldn’t. 

The Inquisitor had almost exited the septa, when against all caution it rolled out of his mouth.

“Do you miss it?”

She turned, silhouette once again. 

“Miss what, Commander?”

“Your… the anchor. I was wondering if you missed it.”

For a long time, the Inquisitor didn’t answer. For so long, in fact, that Cullen worried he had offended the woman. But she replied eventually, her voice somewhat solemn, somewhat thin.

“You know, nobody’s asked me that before,” she said. “I do. I miss it every day.”

There was another heart beat’s pause, then the Inquisitor left the septa, and Cullen alone with his thoughts.

  
  
  


Cassandra found she didn’t know where Lavellan wanted to meet her and decided to wait by the pavillion. It was peculiar, she noted, that the usually bustling garden was so entirely empty except for her.

She had stood there for no longer than a few moments before she heard Lavellan call out to her. Cassandra’s gaze fell on her, and she felt herself sucking in a quick, surprised breath.

_What is this?_ , she asked herself as she watched Lavellan approach. And, to be more precise, _wear_. 

The Inquisitor looked as though she had chosen to abandon her duties and instead make for the sea. She wore knee high boots of soft-looking leather, tight dark pants that reached all the way up past the woman’s navel, and a half open white blouse with wide, puffy sleeves. Her hair, usually half down, was put up in an elaborate braided style from which wisps of her straight hair floated freely, defying the braids. 

“I’m so pleased you’re here,” Lavellan said once she stood before her. 

Cassandra meant to reply, she really did. It was just that her mouth had gone so, so dry. The lack of response did not appear to bother Lavellan, however; she simply grasped one of Cassandra’s hands with her own and led the other woman through the twilight to a spot of the garden that Cassandra had never been to before.

It was secluded, in a way, framed by two trees and Qunari-sized bushes. That was, however not the most remarkable thing about this spot. It was the candles and torches, the blankets, the pillows, the dishes filled with food, the bottle of wine.

“Lavellan-” Cassandra croaked and slid her hand out of the other woman’s grasp.

“This isn’t what you think,” she interrupted hastily. “I’m not about to profess my love for you. This isn’t about me at all. It’s for you.”

“For me- how?”

“Look, it’s just- here! There’s wine you like, candles, and books I thought you might enjoy. This a peace offering. I don’t have to be here at all if you don’t want me to be. It’s just so you can have a nice evening.”

Cassandra couldn’t help but to stare blankly at the Inquisitor. 

“You want me to sit here, surrounded by candles and wine and books. By myself.”

Lavellan’s shoulders dropped a bit, as did the hopeful expression in her pale green eyes. Her lips parted a bit, and Cassandra saw that her remark had taken her aback.

“I’m off the mark,” Lavellan said, her voice duller than before. “I thought you might like something like this. I’m sorry.”

Cassandra furrowed her brow in confusion.

There was something off about Lavellan tonight. Where she usually seemed theatrically yet casually composed, there was a meekness to her now that Cassandra wasn’t used to. It had her feel uneasy, somewhat pressured to accept the gesture that was offered to her. 

For a brief moment she wondered if this display of vulnerability was for her sake - for good or ill. Was Lavellan wanting a quick reconciliation for the sake of complacent peace, or was she being genuine in her efforts to arrange a pleasant evening as a show of attention and friendly affection?

Cassandra let her gaze glide over the arrangements, and a part of her could see what Lavellan had wanted to accomplish. But a scene like this, straight from a romantic novel, was missing one vital piece that her friend had neglected to account for: 

A man. 

Someone dashing, tender, bold, and affectionate to capture the Seeker’s heart. Lavellan could not have been innocent enough to overlook this, could she? Cassandra took notice of the garments that the elf was wearing, and heat began to pool by her collar bones. It was difficult to give Lavellan the benefit of the doubt when she was looking like _this_. 

_ Like what? _ , a voice inside Cassandra asked with mirth. A voice that she quickly suffocated.

No. Lavellan knew… she knew that Cassandra couldn’t think of her that way. It had been a long time since they’d had this conversation. 

_You want this friendship rekindled,_ she reminded herself. _Let her make the attempt._

“My apologies, Lavellan,” Cassandra brought herself to say after a short silence. “My reaction was a bit harsh. I can see you put effort into this. I would be remiss to not take advantage of it.”

“Then-?”

Cassandra saw a spark return to her friend’s eyes and pressed her lips into a thin line. But only for a brief second.

“Do pour me some wine, Inquisitor.”

An intensely bright smile spread over Lavellan’s heart-shaped face and left Cassandra somewhat flustered. 

“Your wish is my command, Lady Seeker,” she replied smoothly with a bow, and in this Cassandra recognized her friend again; her unease faltered.

By now the last rays of daylight had disappeared behind the Frostback Mountains, and the previously subtle hues of pinks and purples had made way for a deeper, all-consuming blue. There was some rustling from the bushes that encompassed them, the quiet hum of wind.

Cassandra lowered herself on the edge of the blanket on the ground onto a pillow, careful not to touch any candles, and began inspecting everything while Lavellan uncorked the bottle of wine to pour her a glass. There were fruits and nuts and cheeses, sticky and sweet baked goods, a loaf of bread with a thick, salty crust. The silver dishes and many knives that lay around gleamed in the flickering light, casting their reflections this way and that. 

The stack of books by Lavellan’s right looked intriguing. It held four overall, of varying thickness, so she reached for one when her friend offered her the now filled glass. 

“How did you choose which books to bring?” she asked. 

“I don’t know. I’ve read them some time ago and thought of you.” Once Cassandra had accepted the glass, Lavellan reached for a grape from one of the bowls. “Either because I thought you might enjoy it, or because I was curious for your opinion on the story.”

“How long have you been holding on to them?”

“A while?”

“Why didn’t you ask me, if you merely wanted my opinion?”

Lavellan tilted her head a bit and plopped the piece of fruit into her mouth. She raised her shoulders, feigning ignorance or innocence. 

“I didn’t want to be a burden on you,” she said as lightly as though it were a usual thing to say.

“A burden. How could sharing books possibly have burdened, Lavellan?”

The line of questioning appeared to cause frustration in the woman.

“I don’t know,” she replied, huffing and slightly raising her voice. “Sometimes I’m not as good at reading people as I can be. Sometimes, I look at a face and have no idea what the person is thinking. Sometimes-”

She had started to gesture passionately, but as she stopped herself, her arms lowered. Her facial expression, so open and passionate, became closed off and composed. Whatever it was that she was thinking, she kept herself from saying, and that alone was enough to create renewed frustration for Cassandra. 

“Sometimes?” she prompted tensely. 

“It doesn’t matter, Cassandra. It really doesn't. They’re just musings of a busy mind.”

The Seeker closed her eyes, trying to keep calm. 

What was the point? What was the point of all this, if Lavellan was not committed to transparency in their friendship?

_ Sometimes… _

“It feels as though you are making things deliberately difficult for yourself,” she finished her thought out loud and watched Lavellan’s eyes grow wide with an indefinable expression. 

But the tension around her mouth, cheeks and brow spoke volumes of what she thought of this statement. _That’s unfair._

“I ask for honesty, nothing more, my friend,” Cassandra said, trying to keep her voice levelled. “I cannot read your mind, either. Nor do I think you would want me to.”

Lavellan’s chest rose and fell before she brought herself to talk.

“You’re right, I… struggle to share my thoughts with you. I’ll try to do better.”

A pause placed itself between the two women, stretching on and on.

“Catch me up on what I’ve missed while I was gone?” Lavellan suggested eventually, with a care- and rueful smile on her face.

Cassandra obliged. She recounted things that had happened around Skyhold; people she had noticed leaving, people she had noticed arriving. She told the Inquisitor of the strides she made in finding a place to rebuild the Seekers, and even of Cullen’s bad spell of pains. 

Lavellan listened closely, even to the point of forgetting all about the food she had initially been eating here and there. When Cassandra described Cullen’s inability to leave his tower, his desperation when he thought he was going to die, Lavellan’s expression grew solemn and thoughtful.

Eventually, Cassandra ran out of things to tell and they sat in a more comfortable silence, observing the moving stars above. It was… peaceful. Serene. And entirely too romantic.

“Tell me about these books that you have selected, Inquisitor,” she asked in an attempt to fill the swelling silence. “I would like to hear more about them.”

Any romantic inclination dissipated almost as soon as Lavellan picked up the first book to talk about. She explained the premises of each, except for one that dealt mostly with Antivan poetry, and in the end offered Cassandra to read to her. 

“As a thank you. You read to me when I was unwell. I’d like to return the gesture, if you would like.”

Having finished a good part of her wine, Cassandra accepted, albeit blushing, and set down her glass to make herself more comfortable. The both of them moved the dishes from the center of the blanket to the side so that Cassandra could arrange some pillows into a comfortable formation and lay down. 

The crown of her head almost touched the thigh of Lavellan’s crossed legs… and a sudden surge of embarrassment clasped at her lungs at the intimacy that this implied. But she didn’t change her position. 

This was… nice, now that they’d been able to resolve some of what had been standing between them. Cassandra let herself be carried by the comfort of the situation, and Lavellan’s voice as she read the first chapter of a retold Antivan legend. 

It told the story of a man who had been destined by fickle fates to drown as a boy, yet was saved by the personification of the sea. Decades later, when fate again brought the man to sea to fulfill his destiny, the mythical creature, the spirit, whatever it may be, spared his life once more. This time, the man was allowed a glimpse into the face of his savior, and fell in love just as the creature did. It was a story of romance, passion and of yearning, of pain and life and death. 

Lavellan had chosen well. 

Yet Cassandra felt herself unable to entirely let go. There was something nagging at her in the back of her mind.

Eventually, Lavellan noticed Cassandra starting to shift awkwardly after a while. She moved her hands from her sides to her belly, from her belly to her sides; turned her knees outward then in; moved her back like a rolling wave that didn’t know which way to go. It must have been somewhat distracting, because Lavellan laid the book to her right and peered into the other woman’s face.

“Are you uncomfortable? I could run and get you more pillows, if you preferred.”

“It is not that. Well, not just that.” 

Cassandra’s brows were drawn together, her lips no more than a line, and she saw in the other woman’s face reflected her own worry.

“What is it?”

“You said you thought of me,” Cassandra said. “In your letter. For the mission. I’d like to know what you meant by that.”

“Cassandra-” Lavellan begann uncomfortably. 

“You said you wanted to make it up to me. I need to know this.”

Lavellan lifted her hand to wipe over her brow, straightened her back, raised her shoulders. The seconds in silence that passed spoke of a deep discomfort. Eventually, Cassandra tensed her core and sat up. 

She didn’t understand why this had to be so difficult. Why couldn’t Lavellan simply say what she meant? It seemed the only time when they could talk openly was when one, or both of them, were enraged. 

“I admire you,” she finally heard the other woman say, and turned.

Lavellan had leaned forward to place her elbow on her thigh, fingers fiddling with one of her many earrings. 

“That shouldn’t be news to you, I suppose. I’ve never been too subtle about it. But don’t worry, this isn’t… you know, the way you might think. I just…” An exasperated sigh escaped her, and she averted her eyes. Stared at a candle by the edge of the blanket. Pulled a grimace.

“I wish… sometimes I wish I could be more like you.”

“Like me?”

“Yes. You are… you’re always so self-assured. You know who you are, even when you’re doubting everything else. You’re smart and strong and soft and so independent. Sometimes I feel like… as if…” Her voice sounded began to sound somewhat muffled, as though a blanket had been thrown over it. “I’d like to be.... like you. I tried, but I could barely build a tent on my own, and Rainier almost died because of me. I didn’t want you seeing me like that. You’ve already…”

Cassandra remembered Lavellan, dishevelled, in her dirty shifts. And she was sure that’s what her friend was thinking of in that moment as well. But she also remembered a conversation, two years ago, much like this one. Except their roles now were reversed.

“I do not know what to say,” Cassandra confessed after a persistent period of silence.

“Now you know how I feel,” Lavellan replied with half a smile. “I don’t know what to say most of the time, either.”

“I assure you I am not always as certain of myself as I seem.”

“Not of your actions, no. But of yourself? Of course you are. You are a Seeker, the co-founder of the Inquisition. You’re a warrior, a woman, and a friend. Even after the Inquisition is disbanded, you will know who you are and what you can do. I, on the other hand? Who am I, without the anchor? What am I, without my hand? My Faith? My friends? Standing on my own, what am I, if not alone?”

Alone? 

_ Alone? _

After everything they had been through, after all the battles and arguments and moments of bonding-

“You’re not alone!” Cassandra stated, half shouting.

“Aren’t I?” Lavellan pushed back. 

“You are more than you give yourself credit for,” Cassandra persisted sharply. “You are beloved for qualities other than your leadership, Lavellan.”

“I am for as long as I am the Inquisitor.” 

Cassandra was about to protest once more, when she closed her mouth. There it was again, that uncharacteristic _meekness_ she had noticed earlier. Lavellan’s posture hadn’t changed, she was still twirling the rings in her ears, still staring ahead on the collection of food and candles, but there was something else reflected in it. A sense of defeat. 

This wasn’t about a lack of gratitude, Cassandra realized. This was about a conflict between the way Lavellan saw the world and the way the world presented itself to her.

Upon seeing this, the storm within Cassandra’s chest quieted down. She had demanded that the Inquisitor gave voice to what she was thinking. And if she truly thought that the world would abandon her...

“You cannot believe that. Not in truth,” Cassandra said gently.

“Is it so far fetched,” Amaryll asked, “to worry about it? How long has it been since someone addressed me by my name instead of my title? Or my clan’s name? What if once my title expires, people start to see me for what I am? What if… they don’t like what they see? What if they start resenting me for it? Paint me as a liar?”

A sadness gripped Cassandra’s heart to match her friend’s. But before she could grasp for the right words to say, Lavellan groaned.

“Ugh,” she said, moving her fingertips from her earlobe to the back of her head. “So much for a peaceful, pleasant evening. I’m sorry, Cassandra.”

“Do not apologize” The other woman laid her hand upon her friends arm, squeezing it gently. “I far prefer for you to speak your mind.”

For a moment, Amaryll simply looked at where Cassandra was connecting to her. Her eyes were blank as though divulging her doubts had left her interior clean, but her lips twisted in semblance of a bitter grin.

“Even if my mind is… _this_?”

“Even so. I consider myself fortunate to be your friend, Amaryll. You needn’t hide a single thing about yourself from me.”

The bitterness in Amaryll’s face slowly softened, then disappeared. Instead, she looked as though she might cry. 

“I’m sorry,” she said again, quietly, and moved closer to pull her friend into a hug. 

They sat like this for a little while, surrounded by flickering candlelight and the sounds of the night. It would be a peaceful evening after all. 


	26. Cullen & Amaryll I

Cullen lifted the quill off the paper, very much pleased with himself. He had been able to sign a over a hundred and fifty letters in the past day, even if, granted, it had been a slow one. His hand may have been cramping, but he was nevertheless feeling a sense of accomplishment. Perhaps he would even be able to sleep tonight, who knew? The evening felt filled to the brim with potential.

He poured some sand on his most recent signature in order to help it dry faster, when a knock at the door ended the silence in his tower.

“Come in,” he commanded from behind his desk.

To his surprise it was not a messenger, but the Inquisitor who entered. Cullen immediately rose to his feet, pushing his chair away with the back of his knees.

“Am I interrupting something?” Lavellan asked, coming to a halt not too far from the door with her arms crossed behind her back.

“No, no. As a matter of fact, I just finished signing some of the letters,” Cullen replied, trying to not sound too smug about it.

A bit of smugness must’ve still permeated his words, judging by the amused smile he reaped from the Inquisitor.

“That’s wonderful. I know it’s a lot of work. I appreciate it your efforts in this matter.”

“Yes, well… Is there something I can do for you, Inquisitor?”

Lavellan tilted her head, and her eyes sparked with mirth.

“You might,” she said airily. “I was looking for someone to share an ale with, and I thought of you. Would you be interested? I’m sure you could use a break.”

Cullen glanced to the stack of finished letters, then to the reports to their right that he still had to review. There was always more work, it had no end. But tonight… tonight, he felt, things could wait.

“I- you know what? Sure. I think I could use some distraction. Lead the way.”

  
  


Herald’s Rest was about half filled when they entered, yet the volume of the conversations seemed to be kept fairly tame. Cullen did not have too many experiences with the tavern, since he felt it did not befit a commander to get too friendly with his soldiers, but he had gotten an earful of the noise coming from Herald’s Rest over the years. 

Especially when Sera had been around. Insufferable and confounding as she could sometimes be, Cullen had to admit that the girl had a hand for easing the tensions in any room she entered. A part of him wondered if the tavern’s quiet ambiance was to be attributed to her absence. Though it could have also been due to the quiet tunes the minstrel was playing on her lute.

Cullen stood by somewhat awkwardly while Lavellan directly went to greet her and Cole, who was oddly squatting on a stool next to her. Cullen still barely knew what to make of the young man, except that he was uniquely talented and effective in rescue missions. Knowing this, and the fact that the Inquisitor trusted him, was enough for Cullen. And judging from the way Lavellan placed her hand on his shoulder and talked ever so softly, there seemed to be a lot of fondness there.

Cullen, in the meantime, had drawn a bit of attention. He’d noticed the gazes of a few people flicker towards and then away from him, whispered words that he could feel had him as a subject. 

_ The Inquisitor is here with the Commander. What does that mean? _

A handful of passersby murmured their greetings to him, which he appreciated. But he still felt a sting of doubt in his chest.

Perhaps this had been a mistake. Perhaps he should have instead agreed to another game of chess, or a walk around the barricades. But by the time he had gathered what he was going to excuse himself with, Lavellan stepped back toward him with two ales in her hand, propped up by her left lower arm, as well as a deeply content look on her face. And by that point, Cullen had a feeling there was no polite way out. So, one drink it would be.

“Let me help you, Inquisitor!” he said, reaching for the tankards. 

The Inquisitor accepted his aid with a thanks, then proceeded to lead him up the stairs. She responded to greetings left and right as she maneuvered herself and Cullen between tables to one that was empty and overlooking the tavern. 

“How is your family, Commander?” she asked as they took their seats across from each other, not too far from a niche filled with pillows, books and fabrics. “Are there any news?”

“My sister Mia keeps me informed,” Cullen reported and placed Lavellan’s tankard in front of her, careful not to tip the candle that was standing in the middle of the table. “As I understand, she is training my nephew to beat me at chess.”

“That’s adorable.” A grin spread on Lavellan’s face before she took her first sip of ale. “How do you figure his chances?”

“He’s four, so not too well.”

“I’m sure your defeat will be distressing.”

“I- you could at least pretend I’d throw the game!”

A quick bout of laughter escaped Lavellan at his indignant tone, eyes reflecting the candle’s light, and Cullen clenched his hands around the tankard. 

“So, how about your family?” he asked. “I trust they have settled into Wycome well enough?”

“From the letters I’ve received from Keeper Deshanna, they have. Those that chose to stay within the city walls, at least. The rest are being led by my brother, who is First to the Keeper.”

“I… am afraid I’m unfamiliar with what that means.”

“Well, there is the Keeper. They usually know quite a bit of magic, are experts on elven lore, and responsible for guidance. Both spiritual and physical one; Keeper Deshanna usually decided where we would move once we stayed too long in one place. The First to the Keeper is also a mage, and an apprentice. They learn Ancient Elvish, as well as lore and history, and all sorts of skills associated with being a leader. When the time comes, or the original Keeper dies, the First takes over. Which in this case happens to be Lathan, my older brother.”

Cullen nodded, feeling somewhat discomforted. 

He had to admit that he knew very few things about the Dalish. During his time at Kirkwall, there had been several attempted raids on a Dalish clan that for some reason stayed on Sundermount. If he was being honest, those raids happened under his command. None of the templars sent there returned, and so eventually Cullen as Knight Captain decided to wait until the Clan left. Because that was what Dalish clans did, right? They moved on?

“What happens when there is more than one mage within a clan?” he asked to distract himself from the unhappy memory.

“Depends on the clan. Do you remember Minaeve? She was our specialist on beasts back in Haven, and for a little while in Skyhold.” Cullen couldn’t say that he did, and so he shook his head. “Mh, well. She says that her clan abandoned her in the woods when she started showing signs of magic. Though in my humble opinion, that is a rare occurrence. In my clan, at least, magic is cherished. It is seen as one of the threads connecting us to the age of Arlathan. When more than one child is shown to have the gift, then they are taken under the Keeper’s wing as well. What decides who becomes First is either a particular talent for the position, or a competition among the First, Second, Third, and so on. In our clan, it is a coveted position. My brother was very proud when he earned it, and I very jealous.”

Cullen had been about to take a drink, when his attention perked.

“Jealous? But… you are no mage.”

“That doesn’t mean that I didn’t want to be one.” She smirked. ”Didn’t you, Cullen? Were you not even the least bit curious about what it’s like to be able to conjure a light whenever you need it? Or to ease somebody’s pain with a gesture?”

Cullen’s heart started beating at an unreasonable pace. 

Had he? Wondered about it? As a child in Honnleath, when he first heard about mages and their powers? 

To gain some time for his reply he raised the tankard once more to his lips and drank two mouthfuls of ale. 

This was no longer a friendly conversation. He felt as though he were in danger, except the only source of it sat across from him with bright eyes and a playful air around her. With each passing second of silence, however, Lavellan’s expression gradually lost mirth.

“I’m sorry,” she said when she noticed that Cullen had more or less choked up. “I forgot that this is a sensitive topic.”

“It’s alright,” he said in an attempt to sound composed and unaffected. 

He failed. 

“Why,” he then pushed out from his tightened, cramping chest, “ _ why would you want to be a one of them _ ?” 

His hoarse tone did him no credit. He knew it as soon as he saw any and all sympathetic sentiment drop from Lavellan’s face. She looked somewhat disturbed as she pulled her shoulders back and straightened herself, her hand still resting on the side of her tankard. 

“Why not?” she replied guardedly. “I have seen my brother bring a rabbit back to life when I was five years old and he was eight. For years, after my parents had fallen asleep in our aravel, Lathan and I would crawl under the same blanket and he would have dancing lights appear on his hands so we could talk for a little longer. He’d heal the skin on my sister’s knees when she fell and scraped them again, he let flowers grow faster to put in my hair, and he would tell me everything he’d learned from the Keeper about how our ancestors used to live.”

The Inquisitor took a shallow breath before lifting her tankard to sip on the lukewarm ale. Cullen did the same, if only to cut through the tension in his body. 

The sourness of the beverage bothered him less and less with each sip he took, though he could feel himself become a little light-headed. He rarely drank, if at all, and only noticed on the periphery of his mind that he might’ve been getting slightly tipsy. The rest was focused on the conversation he was having. Or rather, in this moment, not having.

A part of him felt a sharp sting of regret underlined by dull bitterness. His reaction earlier had been inappropriate, hadn’t it? 

Lavellan had just been sharing things about her family and her clan. It needn’t have gone this way, if only Cullen had been able to contain his instinctive resentment, even just for appearances. After all, Lavellan was not talking about wanting to become a mage _now_. She had been wanting to become a mage when she was a child. And who could begrudge her that childhood wish, considering where and how she had grown up?

Having gone through this process, Cullen felt himself calm down a little. There was still time to fix it.

“I apologize, Inquisitor,” he said, and Lavellan, whose eyes had travelled to the side, where a group of Inquisition soldiers were talking and laughing, turned her face back towards him. “My reaction was… unworthy.”

The gaze she laid upon him was direct and sharp and steady. Cullen felt himself once again stiffen up, and a small knot appeared where his shoulders were the most tense. He did what he could to meet Lavellan’s eyes, to show his rue. And she appeared to have seen it; her facial expression slackened. Even if the spark of amusement in her eyes did not return.

“I understand, Cullen. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Nor I you.”

Cullen extended a small smile to her, which she returned before leaning forward on her left elbow and raising her hand to play with the candle’s flame in front of her. Lavellan moved her fingers to pinch the fire, let them glide through the flickering flame. In spite of himself, Cullen winced, which in turn earned him a sober grin from the woman across from him.

“Please don’t do that.”

“It’s making you nervous?”

“...perhaps a little bit.”

Lavellan’s expression softened into something very pretty, and she pulled away from playing with the candle.

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again tonight.”

They fell back into silence, except this time it was a comfortable one. One that Cullen was familiar with from when they used to play chess together. With his feet back in shallow waters, Cullen felt safe striking up a conversation again.

“You must be looking forward to seeing your family again, after all this time,” he said, somewhat softer than he perhaps usually would have. 

Lavellan lifted her face and gave a cautious smile.

“I am more nervous than anything, actually.”

“Nervous? What would you have to be nervous about?”

“I’ve lived among humans for three years. Life in my clan was… vastly different than here at Skyhold. I worry I might-”

“-not fit in anymore?”

Cullen watched the Inquisitor’s expression turn somewhat melancholic.

“Something like that.” There was a moment's pause. “Will it be odd for you, too, seeing your family and relatives again? A lot of time has passed since you went to Templar training.”

“i hadn’t thought of that as much before. South Reach has never been home to me, but my sister and I have been exchanging far more letters over the past few years. It shall be… interesting.”

“I’m sure you will find yourself part of it all before you know it. Your sister sounds like she is really looking forward to seeing you.”

“Yes… I suppose so. I can count myself fortunate.”

Lavellan nodded. 

“I’m pleased you have people at your back once the Inquisition ends. It’ll be a big change for all of us. Have you given any thought as to what you might want to do? Afterwards, I mean.”

“That is a good question. I was thinking with the coin Josephine will split among us advisors, that I could… perhaps find a sanctuary. To help former Templars recover from their lyrium addiction.”

Lavellan’s eyes lit up at the thought. “I think you would excel at that. Something of the sort is most definitely missing in the world. You could do a lot of good that way, Cullen.”

The intensity with which she said this caused Cullen to become flustered. Her enthusiasm was more than he would have expected.

“That… thank you, Inquisitor.”

“I doubt the Divine would spare resources to support it, but it could be worth it to ask. If not, there might be nobles who’d like to spite her and would invest in your endeavour.”

“I could never ask her Holiness-”

“I could do it for you.”

Cullen closed his mouth, stunned, staring at Lavellan. The elf cocked her head, a smirk playing around one corner of her mouth, and her hair moved to the side. 

“I couldn’t possibly ask that of you, Inquisitor,” Cullen said carefully.

“Very well. The offer stands, though. Divine Victoria can be intimidating, I know. But she is a good person.”

“There is no doubt.”

“Mh.” 

Lavellan’s gaze travelled back to the candle, clearly tempted to take up her previous shenanigans. But she kept herself from engaging them. Instead, she picked up her tankard and moved it in circular motions, watching the liquid swirls inside before she took another drink from it. 

Watching her, Cullen couldn’t help but smile. She noticed him observing her and threw him a silent, confident grin. Which, for some reason, had blood shoot up his face. 

“You, agh, said life in your clan was different,” Cullen prompted to distract both himself and her from this occurrence. “What was the biggest difference?”

“You mean aside from the giant fortress and the title?”

His laughter caught him off guard and embarrassed him further, but it also earned him another, broader smile from Lavellan who by now looked as mischievous as she had when they’d first sat down.

“If I had to say… I can only speak for my own clan, you understand. But compared to them, humans, and especially Fereldans are… somewhat… stuck up.”

“Stuck up?” Cullen repeated in his surprise.

“When it comes to physical contact, at least. At home, I shared an aravel with my parents, my sister, and my brother before he started his own family. We all shared living spaces, beds, and no one thought twice about it. Among our clansfolk, affection is given as freely between friends as it is family. Holding hands, hugging, and similar things are not uncommon. Among humans, however…” She let the sentence ring out before she continued. “People cannot seem to fathom what two people who are not related could possibly do together in a bedchamber. They immediately assume intimate activities. When Cole started visiting my quarters and I Varric’s, Josephine had to have a talk with me, if you can imagine. About how it _looked_.”

Cullen didn’t know what to say. His cheeks were burning at this point, his fingers clenched around his tankard, its remaining contents completely forgotten. He wasn’t sure if he was mortified, intrigued, or perhaps a mixture of both. This was a highly private conversation, that he wasn’t sure he should be having with the Inquisitor. But something about the way she was looking at him, so intense and collegial, made him want to be a part of it. 

He never was someone people implicitly trusted with their thoughts and feelings. To be in this position for once… it was tempting. More so than he would have expected. 

“Varric’s?” he said.

“You look surprised. Didn’t you know him and I are friends?”

“I knew, I just…agh…”

Lavellan leaned forward, her half open hair sweeping over the table top, green eyes sparkling in the dim light.

“You’re wondering what I did there? What Cole, Rainier, and Sera did in my quarters?”

Cullen’s face felt hot enough to burst.

“No, I wouldn’t- I- I mean- you don’t have to tell me,” he stuttered, unable to tear his eyes off Lavellan’s amused face.

She was enjoying this, he realized. She enjoyed flustering him. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to mind.

“No. I don’t,” she replied lightly. “But I could show you.”

Cullen’s lips parted at the suggestion. He meant to look away, to gather all his remaining senses, to give a sensible and responsible reply. To decline.

He didn’t. 

“I...” Cullen began, weakly, heart beating hard and fast. “I… alright.”


End file.
